Step Into Christmas
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2018. COMPLETE.
1. 1st Dec

_1st Dec: From She Who Scrawls -_ Deadline

* * *

"Ah, Mrs Hudson." Lestrade doffed his hat to the esteemed landlady with a warm smile. "I was hoping to see if Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson-"

"I'm _here_!" Holmes emerged behind Mrs Hudson, who rolled her eyes and walked away tutting. He was already dressed in his coat and hat. "Let's go, no time to waste!"

"But, what about Doctor Watson?"

"He is otherwise indisposed." Holmes gestured for Lestrade to retreat from the doorway. "Shall we-"

"HOLMES!"

Lestrade nearly fell down the front steps, he jumped so violently at the yell. Holmes merely turned with a long suffering air and called back,

"IT'S UNDER YOUR DESK!"

"MY DESK? WHY IN HEAVEN-" Watson's bellow ceased; whatever _it_ was, it would appear Holmes had been correct and it had been under his desk.

Holmes nudged Lestrade with his stick, slamming the door behind him as they left. They walked in silence for a few moments, Lestrade quite bemused.

"Doctor Watson does not like deadlines," Holmes explained, about a block away from Baker Street. "His latest story for the strand is due tomorrow and, as usual, he is working right up to the wire."

"What was under his desk?"

"His fourth draft," Holmes replied shortly. "Now, for the love of Heaven, tell me you have something that will keep me out of the flat for the next two days!"


	2. 2nd Dec

_2nd Dec: From Domina Temporis:_ A large bug is found in 221B Baker Street.

* * *

"God in Heaven!"

I jumped instantly from my chair at Holmes's exclamation - there was not much that could so shake his composure as to induce such a shaky, panicked cry - but when I saw the cause of his distress, I could not help but laugh.

"I fail to see what is so funny." He had curled up in his armchair, yanking the edges of his dressing gown up so there was no chance of contamination from the cockroach that scuttled harmlessly enough across the living room floor. "They are pests, full of disease. Where is your revolver?"

"Holmes," I scolded. "That will hardly be necessary."

He watched in unconcealed horror and, I liked to think, awe as I took the creature with my bare hands and dumped it out the window.

"Dear God."

"It's not as though you haven't touched worse!"

"Worse is debatable." He made to lower his feet back to the ground, but seemed to think better of it, the memory perhaps still lingering. "You are made of sterner stuff than I can fathom, Watson."

I could not help but glow a little at the compliment. The rest of the afternoon passed in a relaxed and mercifully insect-free fashion.


	3. 3rd Dec

_3rd Dec: From Stutley Constable - Silk thread_

* * *

Holmes was digging for an old newspaper, a cutting he remembered from a week ago, when his rummaging disturbed the balance of Watson's desk and sent it toppling with a _crash!_ His initial reaction was simply to stare, dumbfounded. The desk was one of his roommate's most prized possessions!

He scrambled to inspect the damage, first to the desk and then to the things that had fallen off and from it. The desk, mercifully, had only a small scratch to the top right leg which he doubted Watson would ever see. Picking up the other pieces took a little longer. One of the Doctor's pens had landed at an awkward angle beneath a journal, squirting ink everywhere. He carefully separated each item into separate piles - untouched, salvageable and ruined. He was not quite done by the time the man himself returned home from his rounds.

As ever, the Doctor was forgiving, and quickly set to helping Holmes clear up the mess. "They're only things, Holmes, no need to worry." Then he caught sight of something on the 'ruined' pile, and his eyes grew distant.

"Watson?" Holmes enquired tentatively. "Are you quite alright?"

The Doctor took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, using it to protect his fingers from the ink that drenched the little item.

"What is it?"

"A charm," Watson mused, turning it over and trying in vain to wipe away the ink. "Well, that's that I suppose." He wrapped the charm up carefully in the handkerchief and placed it gently back onto the pile to dispose of later. "It's silly, really. There was a woman I was acquainted with, in India. Not a word of this gets to Mary," he added sternly at Holmes's raised eyebrows. "It was nothing like _that_ , you understand. Just a fleeting romance. When I left for Afghanistan she had made me this. It's Indian silk, very precious. I don't know how she got hold of it really. But it was just a good luck charm. Nothing important."

"Was it lucky?"

Watson shrugged, offering a lopsided smile. "Perhaps it was. I did leave the battle alive, after all. Not many were so lucky."

"I really am sorry, Watson-"

Watson waved the apology away, getting to his feet again. "I haven't even thought about the thing in years, it was just hidden there at the back of the drawer. I had entirely forgotten it's existence. And the newspaper cutting," he added, producing said cutting with a flourish from the corner, "is here. Since you left it on my desk I thought I should put it somewhere safe."

Holmes had the good grace to look bashful as he accepted the piece of paper. Soon, though, the guilt faded and he could not resist scanning the page for what he wanted.

"What is it about?" Watson asked absent-mindedly, still intent on setting his desk to rights. "Anything important?"

"Perhaps..."

Watson glanced over his friend's shoulder. It was an innocent enough article - a maths professor had departed his university in order to continue his career in London. A very intelligent man, apparently, who wrote some groundbreaking treatise in the subject of binomial theorem at a young age. "A suspect? "

"Hmm..." Holmes was thoughtful for a few moments, then came back to himself with a smile and clapped Watson on the shoulder. "None of that now, anyway. Would you care to join me for dinner, by way of apology?"

Watson indicated that he would and the two left together, throwing away the silk charm with the rest of the rubbish on their way out.


	4. 4th Dec

_4th Dec: From Ennui Enigma:_ Mrs Hudson tells two truths and a lie.

* * *

Martha Hudson lied to everyone she knew. It was not something she was proud of; her mother brought her up better than that! Her mother would never, thank heaven, know why she lied to every acquaintance, friend and even the remaining family members she had. She thought of her mother every time, though, and had worked out a routine - two truths and lie. Like a game she had played with her sister when they were younger.

"He was a good man."

"He left me everything when he went."

"I think about him every day."

The trick to it, of course, was that no one much liked to discuss grief. They would nod sympathetically, but take her lead and refuse to probe any deeper. Then, of course, she had the ambiguous luck of meeting Mr Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you object to experiments?"

"Experiments?!" She blinked in surprise. "That is..?"

"Chemical ones."

"Oh! Well, I... I suppose not. So long as all the furniture remains in one piece and you open the windows now and again to let out the smell."

"And music? I play the violin."

She smiled wistfully. "Oh I wouldn't mind that. My late husband used to play piano, as a matter of fact-"

"Husband?" He raised a curious eyebrow. "When did he pass away?"

She swallowed, steeled herself for the routine. "Just a year ago. He was a good man-"

He snorted. "Indeed?"

She felt the blood rush to her face. "Now, Mr Holmes-"

"No, no, I only meant-!" He stopped talking then, clearly not used to apologising. He took a deep breath, and tried again. "I meant no offense, Mrs Hudson. Please do forgive me, I did not mean to pry."

"Hm. Well, we shall let the matter alone then."

He nodded sharply, and went to inspect both bedrooms.

Martha sat in the armchair - _her_ armchair - and looked out from the window. She thought of waterlilies, the gleam of sunlight on long, auburn hair, and the gentle plod of an old piano...

"They will do excellently!" Holmes's pronouncement snapped her from her reverie and she stood swiftly, dabbing at her eyes before turning back to face him. "I will of course have to find a suitable roommate, but that should be easy enough."

"If you say so." She had heard similar things from many a prospective tenant, and held out no particular hope for this one. Besides which, she wasn't sure she could cope with acting as landlady to someone so nosey and downright _rude._ "I will require one month's rent in advance from each of you, if you do decide to go ahead."

He waved a hand dismissively, and they went downstairs to the entrance hallway. She handed him his coat and hat.

"I do lead something of an alternative lifestyle." He did up the buttons on his coat carefully, though it was really quite warm enough outside. "Bohemian, I believe some would call it. So there is not much that shocks me."

She frowned. Her palms began to sweat. He apparently did not notice her discomfort, and stepped out into the sunshine with a brief, fleeting smile.

"If you don't mind me saying so, she had excellent taste in decor. The living room is exactly to my liking."

Her heart stuttered. "I... I don't know what you-"

"As I said, there is not much that shocks me." He doffed his hat to her. "Good day, Mrs Hudson. I hope to see you again soon."

She stared after him, mouth agape, as he strode jauntily to hail a cab. With a deep breath, she shut the door, heart still pounding with the revelation that someone out there _knew_. Not only knew, but _accepted._

She went back to the living room and sat in the armchair. It was probably her imagination, but she fancied she could hear the echo of a faint and tinkling laugh. She looked sternly to the seat opposite.

"I suppose _you_ would like him, wouldn't you?"

There was no response, of course, but Martha shook her head with a smile as though there had been. She leaned back in her chair and looked out again to the sunny day.

"He won't be back. He doesn't even have someone to split the rent with," she mused, to herself this time. She felt, oddly, disappointed.


	5. 5th Dec

_5th Dec: From Book girl fan -_ Something from Mary's childhood.

* * *

I knew something was afoot as soon as Watson burst through the door. It was not like him to take the stairs two at a time, particularly not on such a cold and snowy evening, just three days before Christmas.

He bent over and wheezed heavily from his exertion. I went to help, but he waved away my concern. "I am fine... I have just run from... several blocks..."

"Whatever is the matter?" It was not like Watson to withhold information, and I confess that the sudden reversal of our roles quite irked me. "You have not even removed your coat, Watson!"

Again, he waved away what I said, and stood straight again. "I must ask for the use of your pocketbook."

The mystery deepened. "I will refuse you nothing, but will I get an explanation?"

"In due course, but for now we must hurry!"

I grabbed my things - pocketbook, coat and hat - and we sprinted from Baker Street. I had had cause to run beside Watson on many occasions, most usually in pursuit of some criminal, but never had I seen him move with such single-minded determination. We came to a stop, as he had intimated, just a few blocks away.

"Mr Jenkins!" He approached a pawn shop, which looked to be closed. "Mr Jenkins I am back, just as I told you I would be!"

The front door creaked open, and an elderly gentleman with bushy grey eyebrows that emphasised his perplexed expression poked his head out.

"Well, I never!"

Watson grinned triumphantly, and turned to me, gesturing for my pocketbook which I handed over silently. He rifled through it, pulling out some bills and handing them over.

"As agreed!"

Mr Jenkins chuckled, taking the money and shuffling back into the shop. Minutes passed. I looked to Watson, whose body quivered in suppressed excitement. It struck me that perhaps Mr Jenkins would not come back, and my friend had been tricked.

Just then the old man emerged, proving me wrong. He held a box in both hands, about a foot and a half long, which Watson nearly snatched from him in his eagerness. "I have wrapped it all up for you, Doctor. You must visit again and tell me what she thinks."

Watson wrung his hand enthusiastically. "Of course, of course. Thank you Mr Jenkins! Have a wonderful Christmas."

Mr Jenkins withdrew into the building. I turned to Watson, who was veritably beaming from ear to ear.

"What _she_ thinks..." I mused. "A gift for Mrs Watson then. Jewellery, perhaps?"

Watson tucked the parcel beneath his arm and we set off back to Baker Street. "You might recall that Mary's mother died shortly after Mary was born."

"I do."

"Well, when she was old enough to be cognizant of her mother's death, her father gifted her a small bracelet. It was a little thing, or so she said, but in the locket attached her father had put a lock of her mother's hair. It was of great comfort to her as she grew up, and when she was 16 years old and her wrist had quite outgrown the old bracelet, her father had the chain replaced."

"Mrs Watson does not wear any such chain now. What happened to it?"

"When her father died, Mary lived in some... _unsavoury_ accommodation." Watson spoke carefully, but I had already deduced that Mrs Watson had spent a small portion of her life in the workhouse. There was no shame in it; it only hardened my respect for her. "She was forced to sell the bracelet, and the locket too. It was silly, she said, for it was a battered and worn item. The locket in particular was stiff, and she was the only one who had the knack to open it."

Watson stopped here, glancing back down to the parcel beneath his arm as though he could not believe it. His smile had not wavered. "I must thank you Holmes. I could not believe my eyes when I saw it in the pawn shop window. And of course that was when I realised I had left my pocketbook at my practice!"

"So that was why you were in such a hurry," I concluded. I could not stop a small smile from creeping onto my own face; Watson's euphoria was so absolute as to be quite contagious. "The shop was closing and you were worried someone else might buy it before you could return. How did you know it was the same one?"

"I used your own methods," he answered with a twinkle in his eye. "I saw the chain and the locket, mismatched in both age and the metal from which they were fashioned. Then I asked Mr Jenkins if I could examine the item and he told me the locket was sealed stiffly shut. Mary had described her way with it before, and I had it open within a minute." His expression turned wistful. "The hair inside is gold, Holmes. The same shade as Mary's. I am so very grateful to you for coming with me as you did. You really can't imagine what this will mean to her."

"I believe I have some small inkling." We had, by this point, reached Baker Street. "Now, with the rest of the money in my pocketbook would you allow me to hail you a cab? I'm sure Mrs Watson will be as happy as you say to see her gift."

"Not before Christmas!" Watson chided. "Though heaven only knows how I will keep it a secret for that long. Perhaps I might send a telegram, and stay a night or two at Baker Street?"

"I can think of nothing better."


	6. 6th Dec

_6th Dec: From KnightFury:_ A cold, dark cell for an innocent man.

* * *

"Is there something wrong?"

We had just hosted Inspector Lestrade, who had left in quite the fluster when Holmes refused to take his case. It was not so unusual an occurrence, but something seemed to be troubling my friend.

"It is a fascinating case. It has several points of interest."

"You could always call him back here, you know." It was not like Holmes to admit he may have been mistaken. Truthfully, it was not like him to _be_ mistaken. "I'm sure he would still appreciate your assistance."

He was curled up in his armchair, looking into the crackling fire but not really seeing it. I would have thought him to be grasped by one of his lethargic, dark moods, but his face was too thoughtful. There was something else afoot here.

"I may have already solved it." He looked to me with an odd anguish in his eyes. "But you see, Watson, I am not _sure_."

"It is not like you to have doubts."

"Precisely." He shifted in his seat with a heavy sigh. "I have found myself... _thinking,_ of late."

I could not help myself from quirking a smile. "Indeed. And is that really so unusual for you?"

He looked to resist rolling his eyes with some difficulty. "Honestly Watson. That is to say I have been _over_ thinking. You may have noticed I have taken no cases in the last month. I conceived of solutions to nearly all of them, and yet..."

"You are not sure."

He nodded. "It is a disturbing thing for me. I know some consider me arrogant, but truthfully it is not so much arrogance as confidence. Self-assuredness. I confess I have made the odd mistake, but I do trust myself. Or I did, at least. Now I find myself thinking, what if I am wrong? What if an error of mine leaves an innocent man in a cold, dark cell somewhere?"

"Even doubting yourself, you are still a better pair of hands than any Scotland Yarder," I answered without hesitation, but he did not seem appeased. "Besides which, I have noticed no falter in your mental ability."

"It holds no joy for me any more," he confessed, quietly. "The worries... they outweigh the enjoyment."

I was rendered speechless. Sherlock Holmes, without casework? Such a thing was nearly inconceivable!

"It may pass..." I began, haltingly.

"I do not believe so." He looked to me, eyes shining with that same anguish. "Are you disappointed, old fellow?"

"My dear friend, there is no possible way you could disappoint me! I only meant to say that your work is, well, your life. What is the alternative? Retirement?"

"I had considered it," he admitted, and again there was a touch of embarrassment in what he said. "I would like to take up beekeeping."

"Ha!" I exclaimed, before I could help myself.

He looked to me, offended. "And what is so very wrong with that?"

I shook my head, still chuckling. "It is just quite out of the blue is all. Sorry. Just... beekeeping?"

"Yes. Beekeeping."

"You can't do that in London, I suppose?"

He pursed his lips, but said nothing. I sighed.

"I can't come with you, Holmes," I told him gently. "I'm not ready to retire. Not yet."

"I thought as much." He rose from his armchair and went to the window. "I suppose that's why I haven't told you beforehand. Things are changing, Watson."

I knew we were both thinking of Mrs Hudson, who had passed away quietly half a year before.

"I'll look for alternative lodgings tomorrow," I said, going to stand with him at the window. "And we can find you a countryside cottage, with plenty of room for some hives. I'll visit as often as I can."

"Be sure that you do," he instructed, sternly. "You could stay here by yourself, you know."

"221B Baker Street without Sherlock Holmes? Unfathomable."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Almost as unfathomable as Holmes without Watson."

"Or Watson without Holmes."

We kept our eyes firmly on the street below, watching the thoroughfare and basking in that final moment before everything changed.


	7. 7th Dec

_7th Dec: From Madam'zelleG:_ Watson tells the Irregulars a story

* * *

It was not uncommon, particularly around winter when it was cold enough outside that those without a stable home were in genuine danger of death from exposure, for Watson to host a small party of my Irregulars for a storytelling session. He usually organised it for when I was out of the flat, knowing my distaste for his romantic writing style, and I would only hear about it retrospectively from Mrs Hudson. She often took it upon herself to bake up a variety of goodies for the grubby children and, on the rare occasion there might be leftovers, would offer me a mince pie or two.

The stories were usually fantastical. Pirates, princesses, all that sort of thing. Imagine, then, my surprise when I returned from a case that had ended prematurely with the death of the client that morning (old age rather than foul play), and heard the conversation below.

"Go on Doc, tell us how you did it!" That was Wiggins.

"Now really, it's not even a proper _story-_ " And that was Watson, quickly drowned out by a clamour of young voices.

"Did you get down on one knee!"

"Did she say yes straight away?"

"What was the ring like Doc!"

"Did she cry?"

"When's the wedding!"

"Did _you_ cry?"

"Can we come to the wedding Doc!"

 _Wedding?_ I strode into the living room. Watson was in his armchair, surrounded by a sea of street children who all turned to look as I entered.

"Goodness, Holmes what a pleasure! Have you come for story time?"

"I've come to hear the answer to the questions that Wiggins and his crew have already posed, Watson," I answered with a sly grin. "Just how _did_ you propose to Miss Morstan?"

Watson blushed bright red. "It was not really planned. That's why I didn't tell you. I've had the ring, I don't know if you noticed-"

"I saw it the day you purchased it." And expensive it had been too. "Over a month ago. What made you decide to propose now?"

He raised his hands in a helpless shrug. "I couldn't say! It simply felt right. As for how I did it, well. I simply asked."

"And..?" I teased, knowing full well that Miss Morstan would never have turned him down.

"And she said yes, thank Heaven!"

The Irregulars cheered in unison, a few even clapping. Wason laughed despite himself. Regardless of the ache that came of knowing he would soon be departing our shared lodgings, I could not deny this was the right decision for him. He would suit married life very well.

Mrs Hudson arrived then, armed with biscuits and hot chocolate. When Wiggins revealed the news to her with typical blunt delivery, she looked close to tears.

"Oh I am ever so happy for you Doctor! A match made in Heaven!"

The rest of 'story time' dissolved into chaos, the Irregulars lining up for their food and drink in a great gaggle. In the hubbub I went to Watson where he sat, dazed, in his armchair.

"Congratulations, old fellow," I told him sincerely. "I hope I will be invited to the nuptials?"

He barked a laugh. "Well you had better be! I hoped you would be best man!"

Best man? Never had I imagined to have a friend so dear as to consider me for such a position. Most embarrassingly, I found myself in a similar situation to Mrs Hudson and was forced to blink back the sudden wetness that had gathered in the corners of my eyes.

"I would be honoured, Watson."

I cleared my throat and turned back to the assembled street urchins. "Now, in celebration of the happy occasion, perhaps you would like to hear Doctor Watson tell the tale of _The Sign of Four_ and how he and his fiancee first met?"

There was another rousing cheer, and we all - the Irregulars, Mrs Hudson and I - settled in to hear Watson tell his story.


	8. 8th Dec

_8th Dec: From cjnwriter -_ Watson learns to play an instrument (or tries)

* * *

It was a simple matter of revenge. I had to admire it, truly. I had never thought to call Watson conniving, scheming or maliciously-minded. Evidently I had to rethink my understanding of the man. Of Mrs Hudson too, for I was certain she was in on this scheme somehow.

The bagpipes. Even played well they were deafening and disruptive; Watson did _not_ play them well. He seemed to rejoice in blowing as hard and as tunelessly as he could. I knew the man's Scottish roots would emerge somehow in our acquaintance, though I hoped it might be through the medium of excellent whiskey, a hidden kilt or the secret ability to cook haggis.

"Would you cease that racket!"

Watson lowered the instrument mid-note, smiling innocently. "So sorry, was that _bothering_ you Holmes?"

I glowered. "You know it was. I am not a fool Watson, you have planned this excellently."

"And?"

" _Fine,_ " I growled. "I will stop playing my violin between the hours of 10pm and 6am. If you _promise_ to dispose of that... _thing."_

The deal was struck and I resolved not to misjudge my flatmate's resourcefulness in future.


	9. 9th Dec

_9th Dec: From Winter Winks 221 -_ True meaning

* * *

Upon the publication of _A Study in Scarlet_ I was most eager to hear Holmes's feedback. After all, I had written the thing in an effort to honour to him, so it mattered a great deal to me what he thought. I waited patiently the few months until he spoke of it, assuming him to be busy with some case or other.

"I didn't know you had a middle name," he declared one evening as we sat in companionable silence. I looked up and saw he had picked up the copy of _Beeton's Christmas Annual_ which I had left so strategically in the living room.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"I am puzzled," he continued with no heed for my question. "What is the 'H' for? Henry?"

"No it isn't. What did you think of the story?"

"Harold?"

" _Holmes._ "

His lips twitched. "Now that _would_ be a coincidence."

"Oh for Heaven's sake, man!" I threw up my hands in exasperation. "What did you think of the story? The writing?"

He set the book aside, going to light his pipe. Who would have known the subject of my middle name would be cause for such speculation?

"Hamish? Hayden?"

I sighed. "You didn't like it, did you?"

"Hugo? Harrison? Hector?"

"Holmes _-_ "

"Hugh?"

" _Holmes!"_ I finally exploded. "I do not _have_ a middle name! I simply put the H in on my publisher's advice. He said it would not be memorable otherwise."

Holmes smiled, but I sensed he had known the answer all along. "And that, dear Doctor, is the entire issue with your writing. You _embellish."_

I deflated entirely at that. "Oh. So you dislike it."

He sighed. "Really, Watson. You must not take it so personally. It is just so romanticised."

"But a great deal more entertaining than one of your own monographs," I quipped before I could stop myself.

Affronted, he laid down his pipe and curled up gloomily in his armchair. The two of us spent the rest of the day simmering in resentful silence.


	10. 10th Dec

_10th Dec: From Domina Temporis -_ Space Travel

* * *

The first few we discounted as troublemakers, outlandish claims swiftly dismissed by Holmes. Others went to the Yard, but Holmes refused to offer his assistance and those cases were also dropped. When Wiggins came to us carrying the same fantastical tales from several members of his motley crew, we were forced to re-examine our approach.

"It _is_ unbelievable."

He paced furiously, faltering only occasionally to glance at the night sky outside. The London fog was thick, as usual, and the moon was a blurry white smudge. "Unbelievable... yes."

I hesitated. "But is it really impossible?"

"You have read too much Jules Verne."

"There is no need to be rude," I reprimanded. "They all tell the same story! Across different classes, ages, genders. No chance of intersection and nothing in common."

"We cannot be certain of that."

"Even Wiggins's crew?" I demanded. "I doubt Lord Willoughby has ever had cause to speak to any of _them._ "

"We cannot _guarantee_ it, Watson!"

"But the story they tell, it's always the same."

"Nearly the same."

"They awaken in a strange, metallic room on some sort of bed. To their right is a large, glass screen from which the stars are visible. Brighter than any of them have seen them."

"Except for Miss Evans."

"Who said they were as visible as on a particular clear, country night," I acknowledged. "Even so-"

"Miss Evans also suggested the round spherical object - green white and blue - could be our very own planet. On the basis that the moon was also visible from her location."

"Perhaps it was."

"It's unbelievable!"

"But impossible?"

He pursed his lips and came to a halt in his pacing, drilling me with a look.

"'When you have eliminated the impossible'..." I quoted at him. "Space travel. Is it impossible?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in a rare act of stress. "For mankind, I believe so."

I quirked a brow. "You mean to say-"

"If it is true - _if_!" He shot me a warning look; evidently I looked too smug for his liking. "Then it is some outside force, some sentient species or similar with more advanced technology who is behind it. To think of _that_ is..."

"Fascinating? Inspiring?"

"Terrifying." Sherlock Holmes was not one to speak so lightly of extreme emotion. His gaze was sombre. "What is the purpose to it? The intent? The answers lie beyond my capability, Watson. So I shall continue to examine other possibilities. The alternative..." He looked again to the smudge of the moon. "The alternative is unfathomable."


	11. 11th Dec

_11th Dec: From Madam'zelleG -_ Holmes finds himself accidentally locked into a church overnight.

* * *

I told Watson, upon his request, a great deal of what I experienced during my extended period travelling the continent whilst pursued by Moriarty's henchmen. There is one instance, however, that I did not reveal to him.

I have never been an especially religious man. Our parents made both Mycroft and I attend church with them regularly as children, but after their deaths there was no one to reinforce the practice. I was far more interested in music, science and my other studies and spent little time philosophising on what greater meaning might lie beyond these. In the years since then, I had thought deeper on the issue and come to the conclusion that there was some greater Providence at work in our universe. Nevertheless, I still do not attend church.

It was in Switzerland, three weeks after my supposed 'death', that I ducked into a small provincial church to hide from some of Moriarty's men. They had already lost my trail and it was only bad luck that we found ourselves in the same village. I prayed (ironic, I realise) that they would not stumble upon me where I hid under the guise of a late night worshipper. Something, be it luck, God or otherwise, smiled upon me, for they moved on none the wiser the next day. Less fortunately, the priest turned out to be a rather old, doddery and half-deaf gentleman who had not noticed there was someone _inside_ the church when he locked up for the night. I had stayed in worse places, and would stay in many more over the next few years. At least it was safe.

I lay there in the dark and draughty building, considering what lay behind and ahead of me. Behind: London, my life, and Watson. Ahead: who knew? More of the same, certainly. Living day to day under different pseudonyms, constantly alert and always fearful. It was not appealing and the thought of it drove me quite to anxiety. My panicked breaths echoed in the church hall and I forced myself up from my makeshift bed in an effort to calm myself. To assist in the effort, I noted my surroundings.

It was not what I was used to from my childhood, but there were certainly similarities. I could see some stray petals in one corner; there had been a wedding yesterday. A discarded handkerchief beneath one of the pews; a funeral today? It was a leap, but there was no reason there shouldn't have been. It _was_ a church after all. I found myself wondering if I would have a funeral and a grave and a eulogy and all the rest. The thought, once I delved far enough into the it, left me laughing at how very ridiculous things could be. I slept, eventually, and the next day I continued.

There is neither excitement nor drama to the tale. Watson, I am sure, would not even be interested. No, I think I shall keep this to myself.


	12. 12th Dec

_12th Dec: From Winter Winks 221_ \- One Night in Paris

* * *

 **A/N:** Exists in the same sort of head!canon as Chapter 4. Contains very mild sexual themes, in the context of a scandal only (nothing at all graphic or explicit!)

* * *

"Mrs Hudson?" Doctor Watson hovered in the doorway, watching her roll the pastry for an apple pie she had promised one of their neighbours. The pie was an apology for a noise disturbance, courtesy of Mr Holmes's late-night experiments. "Might I have a word?"

She abandoned the pastry, removing her apron and dusting off the flour from her hands. "Of course, Doctor Watson. Tea?"

He shook his head, but she for one fancied a cup and set the kettle to boil. They sat across from each other before the stove. Watson cleared his throat.

"It is a somewhat delicate matter. It concerns Mr Holmes and myself."

She remained silent, awaiting further elaboration.

"You see, Mrs Hudson, we are being blackmailed." His leg bounced nervously up and down. "Last month we took a case in Paris."

"I remember."

"An unfortunate circumstance meant we were ousted from the hotel we had originally booked, and had to share a single-bedded room in a different hotel. One of the porters claims that we..." he trailed off, awkwardly.

"Engaged in amorous congress[1]?" She suggested impishly. At his scandalised expression, she laughed. "I know just as much about the Labouchere Act[2] as the next person. Are you and Mr Holmes in any danger from this blackmailer?"

"Oh! Well... no. I don't believe so. Not really." He shuffled in his seat, leg still bouncing incessantly. "He threatened to inform you and Mrs Watson of his suspicions. I was worried you might get a letter and decide it would be easier if Mr Holmes... left. To avoid the scandal. He refused to come and talk to you about it."

"Doctor Watson-" She broke off, for the kettle had boiled. "One moment."

She felt for the poor man, she really did. He looked worried to distraction, and no wonder; Mr Wilde's trial had been splattered all over the papers[2]. She spoke as she poured.

"Mr Holmes has set fire to the curtains, shot the walls to pieces, frequently keeps the entire street up with his experiments-" She glanced to the apology pie. "-and has broken more of my crockery than I can keep count of. I do not need an excuse to get rid of him."

"But aren't you curious? About Paris?"

She settled back into her chair, teacup warming her hands. "That's your business, not mine. Certainly no one else's."

His bouncing leg stilled.

"I don't think anything did happen, mind you," she added, with a quick sip. "I do not believe Mr Holmes is interested in anyone in that way. It's not his nature. And, regardless of your preference, I do believe you are very happy with your wife?"

"Well, of course I am!" The tension was starting to ease off of him. "Would it be possible to have some tea after all?"

She poured another cup and they sat across from each other, sipping in companionable silence.

"I don't know why you put up with all the trouble we put you through," Watson eventually said. "You have the patience of a saint. Explosions, fires, scandal..."

"Before Mr Holmes met you, he showed me a kindness I haven't experienced elsewhere." She smiled enigmatically at Watson's curious gaze. "You may ask him, if you are interested Doctor. For now," she sighed dramatically and rose from her seat. "I had best get to work on finishing this pie."

* * *

[1] Had a wonderful time googling some Victorian euphemisms this evening...

[2] The Labouchere Amendment made 'gross indecency' a crime in the UK in 1885. It was broadly used in practice to prosecute male homosexuals where actual sodomy could not be proven. Oscar Wilde was famously convicted under this law, and in the following century so was Alan Turing.


	13. 13th Dec

_13th Dec:_ From KnightFury - Christmas carols.

* * *

I have been enlisted to help Holmes in a number of strange endeavours for the sake of a case. At Christmas time, things only get stranger. Finding myself part of a carolling troupe for several weeks throughout November and December was really not so odd in comparison to some of the things Holmes has asked me to do.

"It's useless!" He bounded into the room one evening close to Christmas, when I was readying myself to brave the weather outside for a rehearsal. "I was sure he would join the troupe, he has every other year!"

The 'he' that Holmes referred to was Jonathan Shelby, a fraudster he had been tracking but had not obtained enough evidence to arrest.

He dropped into his armchair. "You may as well sit back down, Watson. I must consider other approaches to securing the evidence." He glanced up to where I stood, unmoving. "Watson?"

"The thing is Holmes..."

He groaned. "Really Watson? _Carolling?_ That is your new passion?"

I felt myself blush. "Passion might be a little strong, but it is good fun!"

He sunk deeper into his armchair. "Do as you wish then."

I finished tightening my scarf and made for the door. "When I return I will help you with the case. I should get going or I will be late which would not be good." I stepped through the living room door, casually throwing behind my shoulder, "Particularly given I am learning my solo tonight."

"Excuse me?!"

I hurried down the stairs, Holmes's calls echoing down the stairwell.

"Watson, come back and explain yourself! A _solo_?! Watson? WATSON!"

I could still, occasionally, surprise him.


	14. 14th Dec

_14th Dec: From Book girl fan -_ Never underestimate a scorned princess.

* * *

"Ha!" Holmes laid his newspaper across our breakfast table and, if not for my own swift reflexes, would have knocked my teacup to the floor. "Take a look at this, Watson."

I set my teacup right and leant in. "Good heavens! Is that..?"

"Our former client."

 **KING OF BOHEMIA'S ENGAGEMENT: NOT TO BE?**

"The Princess has broken it off?"

Holmes brought the paper back up to eye level, inspecting the article in more detail. "It would seem so."

"I wonder if Miss Adler had anything to do with it," I mused, tucking back into breakfast. "She doesn't have the pictures, but I suppose she may still have written the Princess?"

"And one must never underestimate a scorned princess." Holmes's eyes twinkled and he turned the page.


	15. 15th Dec

_15th Dec: From KnightFury -_ An old tradition.

* * *

"That... is not fair!" Holmes declared, his tone far less masterful than Watson was used to. "How you have-" he hiccuped. "Tricked me, I don't know. I shall find out tomorrow."

Watson was doing his best to laugh silently, in an effort not to wake Mrs Hudson.

"I fail to see what is so very-" Another hiccup. "Funny, Watson. You are a _criminal._ "

Tears streamed down Watson's cheeks and, with great effort, he got himself under sufficient control to wipe them away.

"You are worse than the first year undergraduates," he declared to Holmes, not entirely sober but pouring another whiskey all the same. Holmes, sprawled on the sofa and squinting, watched suspiciously. "There is an old tradition at Barts of drinking to excess[1]. My tolerance is simply greater than yours."

"Impossible!" Holmes threw a hand across his eyes. "The room is spinning."

Watson downed his drink. "Sleep it off, I'd say."

Holmes mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an agreement. "You didn't tell me about Barts. Unsportsmanlike."

Watson's moustache twitched and, before he knew it, he was shaking with silent laughter again.

"Next time..." Holmes's voice grew quieter, hand slowly slipping from his face to hang over the edge of the sofa. "Next time I shall... choose the drinking game..."

The next morning when Mrs Hudson entered the living room, she was shooed away by Mr Holmes. He claimed to be suffering from a severe headache and she offered to fetch Doctor Watson.

"Not _Watson._ " Holmes hissed, turning to bury his face away from the light in the cushions of the sofa. "He is to blame for this. I do not wish to see _him_ for the rest of the day."

She left him to his mysterious illness, tutting and wondering what the two of them could have possibly fallen out over.

* * *

[1] I have two friends studying medicine at Barts, so can confirm this is true.


	16. 16th Dec

_16th Dec: From cjnwriter -_ Someone breaks their leg on the ice

* * *

The timetable to which I live my life is highly irregular, a fact Watson overly focuses on in his florid stories. Though he might complain about my late night comings and goings, his timetable can be just as disrupted by his own profession. I assumed this was the case when I woke late one day and he was nowhere to be found. He had not been scheduled to work, but he was often called away on emergencies and the recent cold snap had led to a plethora of injuries and illnesses.

The case I had just finished had been long and arduous, but there was no other work lined up so I had resolved to use the free time now available to me in mounting a chemical experiment. Just as I was preparing my beakers and making a list of other materials I might need, I heard the front door opening, and Watson's familiar step as he mounted the stairs. His limp was pronounced, but that was not unusual given the weather.

"Oh, Holmes. I thought you were on a case." He sounded weary, but again that was not so unusual. My focus was on my experiment, as I measured a compound carefully onto the weighing scales.

"It has already concluded." I finished the measurement and turned, stopping short as I took in my dishevelled friend. "What on earth happened to you?"

Watson smiled wanly. He was bundled in a thick blanket, but his hair was damp and he shivered faintly. "A fascinating story."

"Here." I strode across to the doorway, propelling him by both shoulders into his armchair. "What were you doing in Hyde Park?"

"I won't ask how you knew that I was there," he grumbled, sinking into his seat with an expression of intense gratitude. "Parts of the lake have frozen over and some of your Irregulars decided it would be a smart idea to go out onto it. Samuel managed to break his leg and Wiggins came for my assistance."

"And you managed to fall through the ice," I surmised. "You couldn't have treated him on dry land?"

"It was awkward to maneuver!" His eyes drifted shut. "Could you fetch my nightwear from upstairs Holmes? I am disinclined to leave the fireside."

I did not blame him. A dip in a lake at this time of year was no small thing. I dashed upstairs to do as he asked and handed him his clothes, turning back to my experiment as he changed.

"You are lucky Samuel's family had the blanket to spare," I called over my shoulder, measuring the next compound. "And that you had money on you for a cab."

"I would have sent Wiggins to fetch some, if I needed. Holmes would you mind terribly..?"

His shoulder had seized with the cold, making it awkward for him to pull on his nightshirt and dressing gown. I patiently held the arms for each garment so he could ease into them.

"Were you in there for long?"

"Barely thirty seconds." He smiled ruefully, tying his dressing gown cord and returning to his chair. "It was, thankfully, a very shallow area. Samuel's family gave me the blanket and some sweet tea. They suggested I stayed the night, but with my shoulder so stiff..."

"We shall have to have words with the Irregulars about icy lakes."

"Oh I gave them a lecture as soon as I arrived." His eyes were closed again. "Though not ideal, I think the timing of my mishap frightened them enough that they may even have taken in what I said."

"I would not bet on that lasting."

He snorted and murmured a sleepy agreement. His shivering had eased, but I took the afghan from behind the sofa and threw it over him for good measure. He did not even crack open an eyelid, simply burrowing deeper into the cocoon with a contented sigh. As he slept I tended to my experiment, and thus passed the afternoon.


	17. 17th Dec

_17th Dec: From Winter Winks 221 -_ Courage

* * *

Holmes was caught in a particularly black mood. Mrs Hudson had written over a week ago, pleading for my help, and I sprung to action immediately. I had neglected Holmes of late as my practice grew busier and it had quite slipped my mind to visit. I told Mary I would tend the practice but commute from 221B, splitting half days with Anstruther so as to keep Holmes company. She asked only that I remain in touch and send Holmes her love and well wishes. I truly am very lucky to have her as my wife.

It was early, and I had come into the living room to collect my doctor's bag before leaving for the morning's work. I had not realised Holmes was there, but when I turned the gas light up I saw him. His hair was greasy and unkempt, eyes hollow and listless as they flickered up to meet my own. He was sat with his knees drawn up in his armchair.

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"I am failing, Watson." His voice, usually so masterful, was a wavering whisper. "How is it that something so simple as sleep can elude me? As getting up and facing the day ahead?"

He had scarcely spoken these past days and it took great coaxing on my part to persuade him to eat. I sat across from him, watching how the shadows from the gaslight fell across his too-thin face.

"Facing the day ahead is no simple matter," I told him softly. "There have been many times I myself have felt incapable. As for sleep..."

We had never discussed my night terrors, a remnant from my army experiences I was deeply ashamed of. Yet I had not failed to notice the swelling violin which rose from the floor below on nights that I struggled.

"... You have been a great help to me," I finished, determined that I would not let my own pride get in the way of returning my friend's assistance. "Indeed, without your help I do not believe I would have been able to face many days."

He looked away, voice harsh. "I have not witnessed atrocities in war or had to rebuild my life as you have. Why, then, am I failing?"

"We all fail, Holmes." I rubbed a hand across my eyes for I felt I was failing even now. "You are a consulting detective, the only one in the world, a business you built for yourself and thrive within. Your name is famous. By most people's standards, that would be classed as 'success'."

"And for the past two weeks I have not had the motivation to move from these rooms," he spat. "I am useless, Watson. None of it matters if this is how I end up."

"It will not always feel this way."

"But it will always end up this way."

"Things will improve," I insisted. "Life is no easy matter. It is difficult to get up and face the day each morning. I can testify to that myself."

"Your experiences in war-"

"Suffering is not a contest, Holmes! I do not tell a man with a broken arm that he does not qualify for my assistance because he hasn't had enteric fever, or been shot twice!"

"It is not the same."

I ignored that. "You must have seen it, when you and I first met. I was wounded and ill and lonely, but those were only excuses. I was failing. I spent days in my hotel room, listless and pointless. Other men were worse than me and thriving yet _I_ was unable. I was nothing. Days bled into each other. I should have been grateful to be alive, yet I resented it. When I met you, I was desperate."

"But you continued," he said, dully. "It is not that I am not grateful for what you are telling me. I simply cannot see a way out of this. I do not have the courage. Not any more."

"Then I shall lend you mine," I vowed. "Just as you have always lent me yours."

I stayed with him for four days, only leaving to attend my practice for a few hours here and there. It was not that my words generated some grand and sudden change. He gradually returned to himself until a case seized his attention and the mood was wholly banished.

This pattern of black moods continued, to varying degrees of intensity, for the rest of our lives. I may never achieved any miracles, but I was there, which is all I think any of us can hope for.


	18. 18th Dec

_18th Dec: From KnightFury -_ A friend is missing.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the cliffhanger! I do have a vague idea of continuing this, something that's been rattling in my head for a while now... we'll see!

* * *

It had been six months since I had returned to London, and once again Watson had stayed the night at Baker Street. This was becoming an increasingly frequent occurrence, and I had had it on my mind for a while now to suggest he move back in. He was still working at his practice which, combined with the assistance he offered on my cases, was exhaustive.

"Watson?" I caught him on the stairs, opening my bedroom door as he came onto the landing. "It's very early to be up and about."

He smiled wanly. "I need to return to Kensington and get everything prepared for the day. Go back to sleep, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I was already awake," I lied. It was his movement in the living room which had awoken me from a dead sleep; we had been out until the early hours in pursuit of our culprit. "And I wished to discuss something with you."

"I really should be going-"

"Just a moment." I stepped out of my bedroom, door shutting behind me. "You have been of invaluable assistance on my cases and I wondered if you might come and live at Baker Street again?"

He went very still. "What about my practice? My Kensington house?"

"You would sell them."

"I..." He turned away. "I will be late."

"But I-"

" _Goodbye_." His tone was rigid, angry, and he stormed downstairs. I stood, dumbfounded, on the landing.

Mrs Hudson, who had no doubt been woken by the slamming door, emerged at the bottom of the staircase. "What was that all about?"

"I have no idea."

* * *

Watson did not return the next day, and did not respond to the telegram Mrs Hudson advised I send enclosing an apology. I was still not entirely sure what exactly I had done wrong, but did agree with her assessment that our strange half-argument was due to some lack of tact on my own part.

We were scheduled the next day for a theatre trip and I sent a second telegram asking if he would still attend. When there was no response, I grew uneasy and resolved to visit him at home. I would apologise in person.

* * *

When no one answered the door to Watson's Kensington house, my uneasiness grew. Glancing around to check I was not being observed, I picked the lock and stepped inside.

The house was cold and the lights were all out. I bent to pick up the small pile of post inside the doorway, all dated from four days before, when Watson had first come to stay at Baker Street. I laid them aside, feeling suddenly nauseous. He had not been home.

Watson was missing.


	19. 19th Dec

_19th Dec: From zanganito -_ Larkspur

* * *

 **A/N:** A continuation of last, which went in an entirely different direction than I had expected.

This piece was inspired in part by a play I saw recently, _The Inheritance,_ which is in turn inspired by EM Forster's novel _Howard's End._ I find it nearly impossible to sum up all the reasons I think it's good, but I do strongly recommend you see it if you ever have the chance. It's 6 hours long, but is split into 2 halves and goes stunningly quickly (particularly if you break it up with a trip to the pub as me and my friend did!).

And a very merry Christmas to you all, by the way.

* * *

"I should have known you would find me." His words were weary, but there was an underlying fondness that I took as a good sign. "What led you here?"

"Larkspur." I sat beside him in the grass. His jacket was off, shirtsleeves and trousers rolled up in the fashion of a young boy. He looked like any other man enjoying a hot summer's day. "It was the only new decoration in your house. There was clearly some significance."

His head jerked sharply toward me. "You broke into my house? Did you disturb anything?"

I smiled sadly. One room, which used to serve as Watson's study, had been transformed into a nursery. The crib was coated in dust, but the flowers had only been there a few days. "I observed and deduced, as with any other case."

Pacified, he looked back to the blue flower he had just picked, rolling the stem between his fingers and sometimes picking off a petal. "A case?"

"The Adventure of the Missing Biographer."

He looked to me again, contrite. "I didn't mean to worry you. I should have written." A petal disintegrated between his fingertips. "Did you find out what this place was?"

It was a small, but beautiful seaside cottage in Sussex, air fresh and ocean view breathtaking. Between the front door and the cliff edge the grass was peppered with the very same blue larkspur that peppered Watson's Kensington house. This was where Mary Watson had come to die.

Watson must have seen the knowledge in my face, for he inhaled sharply and tossed his mangled flower aside. His thumb- and index-fingertip were stained blue.

"It was the fresh air, you see. Mary had pneumonia when she was younger[1] and her lungs never entirely recovered. When she got pregnant, we did not wish to take any chances. I had savings. The stories, my practice, a little extra work as a police surgeon..." He glanced back to the cottage, quaint and unassuming. Even with my observant eye, I could never have deduced the place's history. "We were happy, for a time. She was advised to rest and stay off her feet, but I bought a wheelchair to take trips through the country or the village. Anstruther took over my practice, supposedly until the baby was born, but I wanted to stay here forever. It was as if the real world, back in London, did not even exist. Careful, Holmes."

"Hm? Oh." He was pointing to my shoulder, where a bee had landed and crawled lazily along the black material of my jacket. I reached a hand out and the bee edged on. "What did Mary think of relocating?"

"That I would become bored as a simple country Doctor." Watson's eyes followed the bee as it took flight, disappearing into the powder blue sky. "She was the one who had persuaded me to offer my services to Scotland Yard after Reichenbach."

I would have been inclined to agree with her assessment, for I had always considered Watson a man of action. Seeing him bathed in sunshine and the faint blue tint reflecting from the flowers, I was forced to rethink my stance.

"My finances are in ruins." He drew his knees into a slight bend, leaned back onto his palms and gazed out onto the sea. Even on this beautiful day, waves crashed across the jagged cliff face and surrounding rocks. "Yet I cannot bring myself to sell. If I did it would feel like I was betraying her somehow. Moving on. I am sorry I shouted at you, Holmes."

Tentatively I placed a hand on his arm, relieved when he didn't shrug it off. "I was so eager to return back to old ways, I neglected to think of the three years wherein we haven't know each other. Take as long as you need."

We sat together in relative silence, though the bees still buzzed and the waves still crashed. I had never been one to much appreciate natural beauty, but my time away had made me nostalgic for our 'green and pleasant land'. I told Watson as much, and he raised an eyebrow.

" _You_ are quoting William Blake? Times certainly have changed. What next, Dickens?"

I shuddered. "Not even three years in hiding could enamour me to Dickens."

"Well at least the Holmes I knew is not completely gone," he laughed. "What was it that turned you to Blake?"

We chatted back and forth inconsequentially amidst the larkspur flowers for the rest of that sunny day. It was just as Watson had said; London and our real lives did not exist. The next day we would return, of course, and some time after that Watson would sell his properties and return to Baker Street. He would not realise, until many years later, that the Sussex Cottage's mysterious buyer was none other than myself operating under a pseudonym[2].

For now though, the evening had drawn in and the temperature dropped. Watson brought out rugs, blankets and sweet tea. The stars were brighter than I had ever seen in England and, as we looked up at them, time was rendered startlingly irrelevant.

* * *

[1] A head-canon of mine that has slowly evolved over this challenge - Watson mentions some time Mary spent in the workhouse in my 5th December response. May expand on this further at some point.

[2] Yes, this is where Holmes eventually retires and keeps bees. I suppose that makes this into an AU.


	20. 20th Dec

_20th Dec: From cjnwriter -_ Snowed in

* * *

"It will keep, Holmes."

"It won't!"

It had started snowing about an hour ago and there were no signs of it stopping. We were in the midst of a case, or rather at the conclusion of one; but the final piece of evidence was in the Scotland Yard stables. One of the Mounted Branch's steeds, Holmes believed, had picked up residue from a particular plant. This residue would place the rider, Constable Terrence Brown, at the scene of a murder he had _not_ been investigating.

"The longer we wait the more chance Brown will hear from one of the other Yarders what we have discovered." With a decisive flourish, Holmes picked up his coat from where it had been warming by the fire. "I can't risk it, Watson. I should be back within several hours. What are you doing?"

I had snatched up my own overcoat, albeit with rather less enthusiasm than Holmes had. "I am coming with you of course."

"It is hardly necessary-"

"I am coming, and that is an end to it," I told him in a tone that brooked no argument. "And fetch your scarf for goodness' sake. I have no desire to treat you for exposure!"

I regretted my decision a few hours later. There were no cabs so we walked from Baker Street to Charing Cross[1]. In pleasant weather it was a 45 minute walk. Today it took nearly twice as long, meaning we were both thoroughly chilled when we arrived. The door to the stables were inaccessible due to the snow, but we worked together to clear it and Holmes had luckily thought to carry his lock-picks with him. There were no men on duty, owing to the snow.

I felt for the poor horses as we walked through the stables, but was even sorrier for ourselves when it transpired we had been snowed in. As Holmes pointed out, we were equally to blame for not thinking to leave the door propped open as we removed the residue from the coat of Brown's horse. I did not much appreciate his observation at the time.

We spent the night shivering with the horses, dozing on and off, and quite startled the Yard's stable boy the next morning once he had made it inside. Holmes demanded to be taken to Inspector Lestrade as a matter of utmost urgency and the case was wrapped up. Just another of the odd experiences that made up my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

[1] I've ended up finding out the most specific things about Victorian England for this challenge! I read about the history of Scotland Yard, and apparently the Mounted Branch was the oldest and came to existence in the late 18th century. It was tricky to find out exactly where the stables would have been, but the Charing Cross stables which still exist to this day are apparently the oldest - and within walking distance of Baker Street!

Also for those interested, apparently when the Yard moved in 1880 there was a body discovered at the site it was moving to? Definitely potential for a Sherlock Holmes story there somewhere!


	21. 21st Dec

_21st Dec: From sirensbane -_ Role reversal

* * *

 **A/N:** Continuation of 16th Dec response. Happy new year everyone!

* * *

After his brief dip in Serpentine Lake in Hyde Park, Watson - to no one's surprise but his own - developed a nasty strain of influenza. Following a stern talking to from Mrs Hudson when she heard his thunderous cough all the way from the kitchens, he begrudgingly prescribed himself bedrest and sent out messages to all relevant parties that he would be unable to work until after the Christmas period was over. I myself had no cases of interest and was forced to postpone a fascinating chemical experiment; the fumes set off Watson's coughing and, more to the point, his temper. I avoided cocaine, also to avoid his ire, and so was left at rather a loose end.

A few days into Watson's convalescence a welcome distraction was provided. I was leaving the pharmacy, stocking up Watson's medical bag per his instruction, when I came across Wiggins.

"What you got there then Mr 'Olmes?" He pointed to my brown paper bag. "Yew doin' Doctor Watson's work now?"

"He is ill," I answered wearily. The adage about Doctors making the worst patients was proving true; he trailed about the place sneezing, coughing and complaining. I did my best, but as he himself acknowledged, my bedside manner was somewhat lacking.

Wiggins looked instantly concerned. "From 'elpin' Sammy?"

"Indeed, but do not worry yourself." I made to leave, but stopped short as a flash of inspiration seized me. "Wiggins, I believe I have an idea..."

* * *

"This really isn't necessary!"

Watson's token protest was drowned out by the thundering of multiple feet up the 17 steps to our living room. The swarm of children burst in laden with medicines, warm blankets and homemade remedies. At the very rear was Samuel, the boy Watson had treated for a broken leg, limping along with the assistance of two crutches. If I shared Watson's love of embellishment, I should say he looked a veritable Tiny Tim.

"Really boys this is very kind." Watson was still blustering, though he struggled to be heard given the combination of his hoarse voice and the Irregulars' loud chatter. "But I am the Doctor here and I really don't think-"

"Come now Watson, the boys only want to help," I cut across him, marshalling the Irregulars into some form of, well, regularity. They stood quiet as I had ever seen them, and Samuel hobbled forward.

"We only wanted to 'elp yew get better, Doctor," he mumbled bashfully. "Like yew always 'elp us!"

Tiny heads bobbed up and down in eager agreement. Watson, ever the bleeding heart, could not deny the pleas of so many children. He settled back against the couch cushions, glaring daggers at me, and resigned himself to the Irregulars' dubious ministrations.


	22. 22nd Dec

_22nd Dec: From BookRookie12_ \- A cold December night.

* * *

 **A/N:** Inspired by the song Cold December Night (by Michael Buble? Not sure if he did the original because so much of his Christmas album is covers?)

* * *

Watson is in love. If it weren't so immensely irritating, it would be quite amusing. He wanders around with a soppy grin on his face, will wax lyrical about Miss Morstan to anyone who cares to listen (and those who don't, as I can testify), and frequently loses his train of thought. He has just walked into our living room, shivering from the snow outside, but without a care in the world.

"She kissed you then?"

He jumped, apparently having not spotted me. Yes, definitely a kiss. He was beaming ear to ear. How far a sensible man could be felled by simple infatuation. He at least had the good grace to blush when I mentioned the kiss.

"Well, er... yes, as a matter of fact." He took to his armchair with a sigh, laying his chin in his hand. "It was wonderful. The stars were out, such a clear December night Holmes, I've not seen one like it in London before. We took a walk through St James's Park-"

I rolled my eyes. "Honestly Watson, I have deduced as much as I would like to know. More, in fact! I do not need any of the details."

He was humming to himself, not taking in anything I said. Still smiling. Pah!


	23. 23rd Dec

_23nd Dec: From BookRookie12_ \- Hope

* * *

 **A/N:** Hm. Seem to have really developed a taste for post-Hiatus angst...

* * *

"You _lost_ him?"

In a quite lengthy acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, lengthier even than Doctor John Watson's, Lestrade had seen the detective in a long list of varying states. As he watched on from afar, accompanied by a couple of gaping constables, he reflected that he had not seen Mr Holmes quite so angry at the good Doctor as he appeared now.

"I... was distracted," Watson admitted. Lestrade, despite Mr Holmes's frequent assessments, was really quite eagle eyed and even from this far away could see how Watson's grip tightened on his cane. "I apologise. It was a mistake."

Holmes threw his hands up in the air. " _Weeks_ of work Watson! Weeks! All for you to get distracted! We shall not get him now, you do understand that?"

"I-"

"This is a case of _national_ importance and you have just thrown it away!" Holmes started pacing then, gesticulating wildly as he continued his rant.

"Go and get a telegram to Whitehall," Lestrade instructed the constables sharply. "Mr Mycroft Holmes. Tell him Peterson has escaped."

The constables hurried to carry out his instruction.

"Mr Holmes?"

" _What?"_ Holmes turned on his heel and storming up to the Inspector. "What is it Lestrade?"

"Doctor Watson left a few moments ago." Lestrade pointed to the empty spot of pavement. "And I've already sent a telegram to your brother, so I suggest you follow him."

Holmes made a rather unseemly _harrumph!_ sound. "It is utterly ridiculous. I can only apologise for Watson's incompetence. Evidently in our time apart he has grown lax-"

" _Mr Holmes._ " Lestrade drilled the detective with a hard stare. "I will not listen to you lampooning the Doctor's good character. He's done good work for us while you've been away. It was one mistake."

"A mistake that has allowed a dangerous criminal to escape."

Lestrade struggled to conceal a snort. "A _counterfeiter_. The only ones who might suffer are your brother in Whitehall and the banks; I won't be losing sleep over it."

The little detective left then, pleased to have surprised Holmes speechless. He did hope that the Doctor and detective would fix their rift, though. It would be easier on all of them.

* * *

When Holmes returned to Baker Street he was greeted by a concerned Mrs Hudson.

"Have you and Doctor Watson fallen out?"

He sighed. The woman was too observant for her own good sometimes. She took that to mean yes and urged him upstairs.

"Go and make up then. Dinner will be ready in an hour and neither of you eat when you're angry with each other."

Holmes trudged upstairs with a sense of foreboding. The journey back from the failed operation had cooled his anger a little. Watson had only recently moved back to Baker Street and, no matter the error he had made, Holmes had no wish for him to move out again. He took a steadying breath and stepped into the living room.

The Doctor had not removed his coat, but stood looking into the fire with a glass in his hand.

"Holmes." The greeting was cold and formal. "If you have come to shout at me like a child, I am in no mood."

Holmes stepped tentatively towards the fire. "I apologise. I was angry. I still am, a little. But when you agreed to share rooms with me again I intended us to be equal partners in this business. I should not have treated you as I did."

Watson continued to stare into the flames. "You may well change your mind on that."

"Why?"

"The reason I lost Peterson..." Watson trailed off, seemed to steel himself for something, and turned to Holmes with dread. "I saw someone. She was blonde, blue eyes and from far away I thought- just for a second I-"

"Your wife." Holmes's remaining anger disappeared all at once. "Watson, I didn't realise."

Watson went to refill his glass, but the liquid sloshed over the rim when his hand shook. "I am not insane, Holmes."

"I never said you were."

"When one of your friends returns from the dead... it makes it that much harder not to _hope_." Watson shook his head, abandoned his spilt drink and made for the door. "If you could let Mrs Hudson know that I won't need dinner tonight."

"Watson, wait-"

"Goodnight."

The door slammed behind him. Holmes had never felt so inadequate.


	24. 24th Dec

_24th Dec: From zanganito_ \- Royal Court

* * *

"You must help me, Mr Holmes. I am in desperate need!"

Mr Cecil Darling, (a stage name, one can only hope), flopped back into an armchair. It was my armchair, as it happened, and perhaps that was why I didn't rush to him as he fanned himself and panted heavily. Or perhaps it was because this was the third time during his story that he had almost, apparently, fainted. Holmes's face was carefully composed, but I noticed the occasional twitch of his lips that betrayed his amusement.

"The case holds several points of fascination."

Mr Darling sat up straight, eyes shining. "You will take it?"

"I must ask," I interrupted, before Holmes had the chance to respond. "Why not just replace the prop?"

" _Replace_ it? Ha!" He flung himself back into his chair and I instantly regretted the question. "Clearly you are not a man of the theatre, Doctor Watson. I did not get to my position-" _an unknown theatre director,_ I thought resentfully to myself, "-by replacing props left right and centre! This prop is vital to my lead actor's process." He sighed, dramatically. "So Mr Holmes, will you take it?"

Holmes, who had watched our exchange with a twinkle of humour in his grey eyes, replied, "I confess, it is not the sort of thing I would usually look into..."

Mr Darling's hand flew to his mouth in abject horror.

" _But_ as I have no other cases at present," Holmes finished with a slight smile, "I see no reason why not. Shall we come to rehearsals tomorrow?"

* * *

I may not have have been 'a man of the theatre', as Mr Darling put it, but I don't think I had ever seen so awful a performance as what we witnessed in that rehearsal. It was his first directed piece at the Royal Court Theatre, and I suspected it would be his last. Holmes seemed to agree with my assessment, for every so often he would mutter a criticism in my ear.

"No, no, no!" For the seventh time in half an hour Mr Darling called the actors to a halt. The cast was of three quite bored-looking men, who assembled before him to be shouted at.

"I don't know why you took this case."

"Mr Darling has offered a large fee. I thought you would approve." Holmes yawned. "The prop dagger is in Mr Henderson's dressing room."

"Mr Henderson?"

Holmes pointed. "The man in the middle who plays the Reverend. Mr Darling has been particularly harsh with him, and when we introduced ourselves as detectives he was particularly tense."

"Well I cannot stand much more of this. Shall we go and pick up the dagger?"

"You go on, I shall keep them busy." He stood. "Mr Darling, perhaps you would appreciate an outside eye? I would suggest that Mr Janes lengthens the pause before his last line..."

I rolled my eyes and went to Henderson's dressing room. By the time I had returned with the dagger, Holmes had already cut half the play including the one scene that included the prop.

* * *

One month later, the Royal Court Theatre presented Mr Cecil Darling's debut play, an instant hit that catapulted him to a brief period of fame (which his next play swiftly dragged him back down from).

"Giving Scotland Yard the credit for your cases is one thing, Holmes, but this is really something else," I commented drily when we came across the rave reviews in the paper. "Who knows, perhaps I could write a stage adaptation of one of our adventures..."

"And risk it falling into the hands of the likes of Cecil Darling? Well, you take your life in your own hands..."


	25. 25th Dec

_25th Dec: From sirensbane -_ Norbury.

* * *

 **A/N:** A cheerier one for you all! Also, I know the barest minimum about chess. The game was originally going to be battleships, but unfortunately that didn't exist in Victorian times...

* * *

" _Norbury."_

Holmes's hand stilled. Watson had whispered the word, feather light, in his ear. "Are you certain?"

Watson whispered something further, indistinguishable to all but Holmes, who nodded thoughtfully.

"Very well." He met his opponent's eyes, and his hand moved again. "Knight to E4. Check."

Mycroft Holmes pursed his lips, watching the move intently. "I believe you will regret that, Sherlock." He moved one of his own pieces. "King to B2. King takes Bishop. Check."

Holmes grinned, shifting his pawn. "Pawn to C3. Check."

They continued in this manner for some time. It had been a long-fought battle, three hours of intense and calculated moves. Watson had only intervened at the very end and now returned to his seat at the dinner table beside Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.

"I've never understood chess myself." Lestrade dug enthusiastically into his second helping of potatoes. "Takes so bloody long to finish a game. I could never see the point."

Watson shrugged easily. "It does take patience, if played right."

"Are they even close to finishing, Doctor?" Mrs Hudson nodded her thanks to the footman who topped up her glass. They had all been invited to Mycroft Holmes's for Christmas and she was not used to being waited on in such a manner. "Why Mr Holmes, _our_ Mr Holmes that is, has hardly even touched his meal!"

"I believe they will finish soon," Watson reassured her and, sure enough, a cry of triumph arose from behind them.

"Aha! Checkmate!" Holmes sat back from the chessboard, (he had before been leaning in so close he had been hunched nearly in half). He looked pleased, and perhaps even a little surprised. Mycroft, who had never been beaten at chess before, was stunned.

"Good game, Sherlock." They shook hands. "We shall have to play again soon."

"Not too soon, I hope," Lestrade quipped. "Or else we shall never get to Christmas pudding."

As he returned to the head of the table, Mycroft scrutinised Watson.

"Do you and Sherlock play chess together often, Doctor?"

"Well..."

"Erm..."

Holmes and Watson trailed off, carefully not looking at one another.

"They did." Mrs Hudson sipped innocently at her second glass of sherry. "Until Mr Holmes grew so frustrated that he broke the chess board in half."

The staff had never heard Mycroft _laugh_ before, and certainly not so vigorously that he was forced to clutch the table for support! It was quite alarming and the head butler hoped privately to himself that this instance of Mr Holmes inviting his brother and companions to Christmas dinner would not become a tradition.


	26. 26th Dec

_26th Dec: From mrspencil -_ Holmes in a bad mood

* * *

"There were no witnesses?"

"None."

"And the door was locked from the inside?"

"Yes."

"And you have no leads?"

"Not one."

Gregson whistled, long and low. "I don't know what to suggest. Have you seen Holmes?"

Bradstreet groaned and slumped onto his desk, his face buried in his arms. Over at his desk in the opposite corner, Lestrade smirked.

"The Doctor?" Gregson guessed, looking between the two of them.

"He's been away for an entire _fortnight_ ," came Bradstreet's muffled whine.

"I visited Baker Street yesterday and Mrs Hudson said he'll be back this weekend," Lestrade reassured. "Can the case wait until then?"

Bradstreet raised himself up from his desk with a heavy sigh. "It will have to."

The three inspectors shared a knowing look. Holmes was never in a worse mood than when the Doctor was away.


	27. 27th Dec

_27th Dec: From SheWhoScrawls -_ Eat, drink, and be merry

* * *

The Scotland Yard Christmas party happened every year, or so Watson was informed by Inspector Lestrade when he had just started to work cases with Holmes.

"You're welcome to come, Doctor." Lestrade hesitated. "And Mr Holmes too, though I doubt it's really his cup of tea. He doesn't seem to enjoy the festivities."

Watson raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I didn't imagine he was overly fond of Christmas, but surely even he must appreciate a chance to eat, drink, and be merry?"

"All three at once?" Lestrade and Watson both jumped, for at some point Holmes had snuck up behind them. "Lestrade is correct, Watson. I really cannot think of anything worse. Might we get back to the case?"

The matter was dropped, or so Holmes thought. Watson was determined to get him to the party, one way or another.

* * *

"Mr Holmes!" Lestrade was gobsmacked. "You're here!"

"Observant as always," Holmes sniped. "It was not my choice, but Watson persuaded me."

"How did he manage that?"

Holmes sniffed. "Blackmail."

Lestrade's eyes widened in alarm. "You mean to say-"

"I promised to take the blame for Mrs Hudson's broken teapot." Lestrade and Holmes jumped, for Watson had snuck up just behind them. "Honestly Holmes there is no need to exaggerate."

" _Exaggerate?_ Doctor if it were up to me-!"

"Well, enjoy the party," Lestrade hastened to interrupt. "I had best go and say hello to the Commissioner."

He left the two of them bickering. It looked as though Doctor Watson was the harbinger of great change when it came to Mr Holmes...


	28. 28th Dec

_28th Dec: From Winter Winks 221 -_ Faithful Toby

* * *

 **A/N:** Some days you fire off drabbles and some days you plot a four part story around your research into Victorian dog shows... More to come soon!

* * *

Bits of him are peeling away and the sensation is something he should probably find disturbing. Words rattle in his head, medical terms he detachedly applies to himself.

 _Exposure... Cracked ribs... Concussion..._

There is another word that clamours for his attention, urgent and insistent from a corner of himself he cannot quite reach. A name.

 _Holmes._

Through forcing them open, he discovers he has eyelids. He realises, retrospectively, that it was the sensation of something slimy lapping against his face which brought him to this semi-wakeful state. That and a faint, animal whining.

"Toby?" The harsh rasp of his own voice makes him wince, but at least the dog stops licking his face. "Good- good boy."

A damp snout nuzzles his palm, makes his fingers twitch instinctively against soft fur. A warm body buries itself into Watson's side and Toby barks, perhaps in some attempt to rouse him. Watson is slipping away again. He speaks as loudly and clearly as he can, but he worries that some of the sounds get lost on the way to his mouth.

"Find Holmes, Toby."

Another bark, but Watson is scattering to who knows where. He pats Toby clumsily.

"Good boy. Find Holmes. Good boy..."

Watson's hand falls limp beside him. The last he hears is the clatter of paws fading into the distance.


	29. 29th Dec 1 of 2

_29th Dec: From Domina Temporis -_ Undercover

* * *

 **A/N:** Continuation of last. I've had to split this chapter in half, things have gotten out of hand! Please let me know if you spot any mistakes, I'm not used to writing this much this quickly! More to come soon.

* * *

Let it never be said that Mrs Hudson was a woman devoid of humour. One brisk morning in mid-December she announced with a grin and stifled giggle,

"Mr Jacob Nicholls and Lady Hua to see you, Mr Holmes."

Holmes instructed her to send them up and Watson glanced over curiously. "Were you expecting anyone today?"

"No one, which would suggest a new case." Holmes frowned, tilting his ear to the door. "That does not sound like 2 sets of footsteps."

A short, smiling gentleman entered. He held a small creature in his arms which, on closer inspection, was judged by both Doctor and detective to be a very fluffy dog.

"Mr Nicholls?" Holmes hazarded a guess. "And..." His eyes fell to the dog. "... Lady Hua?"

Nicholls, smile widening, shifted the dog to his left arm so that he could use his right to shake Holmes's hand enthusiastically. "Oh Mr Holmes, I am so glad to meet you. I have heard very good things. And you must be Doctor Watson!"

Watson, who had been strategically hiding his smile in a book, was surprised to be recognised. "Do I know you?"

"Not personally, but I have read your story!"

Holmes groaned, but Nicholls prattled on regardless. As he did, Watson grew redder and redder with the praise.

"Such a thrilling read, you have such talent! I was engrossed from start to finish, I do hope you write more." He hesitated, glancing down to the dog. "Would you mind if I put Lady Hua down for a moment? I know you have a bullpup, Doctor, so I hoped..."

"We got rid of the bullpup," Holmes said shortly. "It chewed everything it saw. Our landlady's niece took it on."

"Well, that is puppies for you," Nicholls replied amiably. "But Lady Hua is very well-trained."

Holmes waved a hand in acquiescence and the Lady was lowered to the floor. She sniffed the skirting of Holmes's armchair, perhaps intrigued by the thick scent of his pipe.

"I'm sorry to bring her." Nicholls perched on the sofa. "But she is the real reason I am here, you see."

Holmes gestured Watson to his chair. "Please lay your case before us, Mr Nicholls. Do you object to Doctor Watson taking notes?"

"Not at all!" Nicholls looked as if nothing would please him more. "I suppose I should explain that Lady Hua is a very rare breed of dog. A Pekingese, or 'Lion Dog'."

"I can see where the Lion part comes from," Watson commented, leaning in to peer at Lady Hua's impressive coat which flared out at her shoulders. "May I?"

"Oh, please! She is very good with strangers."

Watson stroked the dog contentedly. He had always had a certain affinity with dogs, and in truth the ousting of his bullpup had been a great source of contention between the two flatmates for some time.

"If you could continue your tale, Mr Nicholls," Holmes drawled, eyes half closed as was his wont when listening to the details of a case. "Be sure not to not disclude any pertinent detail."

"Well, Lady Hua has just won the London City Dog Show," Nicholls continued. "She and her brother and sisters were the first litter of their breed to come to the UK; apart from Queen Victoria's Looty, of course![1] However, the night before the judging, the rest of the litter all went missing!"

"You owned the other dogs?"

"No, no, each dog had a different owner."

"Could you list them?"

"Certainly." He reeled the details off and Watson stopped stroking Lady Hua so he could scribble them all down. "I'm not sure where they will all be from now, apart from Aldous Wilkinson who still plans to attend the Edinburgh Dog Show. He and I are old friends and made the decision to invest in our dogs together. I do feel so sorry he has lost Kangxi."

"Kangxi is his own Pekingese?"

"The only male of the litter." Lady Hua whimpered softly and Nicholls cooed gently at her. "There, there Lady." He looked up, a little bashful, as the two other men observed this show of affection. "Sorry. Aldous always says I am too caring for my own good, but dogs are pack animals and I do think she can sense that something is wrong. I've been terrified to let her out of my sight for fear she will be taken as well!"

"Why wasn't she, do you think?" Holmes asked. "If all the litter went missing at the same time..."

"The other owners were at a dinner with Mr. Charles Cruft[2]. Oh, an up and coming showman, he has a run a few smaller shows," Nicholls added at Watson's querying look. "I was also supposed to attend, but Lady Hua had an upset stomach. I stayed with her through the night in my bedroom, while the other dogs were kept in the Abraham Kennels in Shoreditch."

"Did anyone see the theft?"

Nicholls shook his head, sighing. "I did try and approach the official forces, but I was laughed out of Scotland Yard. They may laugh, but this is a serious matter. There are lives at stake! Will you help me, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully. "When do you leave for Edinburgh, Mr Nicholls?"

"Early this afternoon," Nicholls admitted ruefully. "There is a welcome party for contestants this evening and the competition begins in earnest tomorrow. However if you think my presence will help with the investigation, I will happily withdraw-"

"That will not be necessary," Holmes interjected with a raised hand. "Watson, could you make yourself available over the next few days?"

"I would have to write Mary and rearrange some appointments, but it's no trouble. What have you in mind?"

"I would like you to accompany Mr Nicholls."

"Oh, Jacob please," Nicholls interrupted, beaming and hoisting Lady Hua back to his lap. "If you two gentleman are indeed going to help me we may at least operate on a first name basis!"

"Then, if you would accompany Jacob," Holmes amended, and Watson could sense he was growing impatient with Nicholls' well-meaning, if irritating, manner, "under the guise of a hopeful contestant in the Edinburgh Dog Show. The reason for the theft is not yet clear, but I must stay in London if we have any hope of discovering the litter alive."

Jacob gasped, a hand flying to his mouth in horror at the idea that the dogs might be dead. Holmes paid him no heed.

"I would ask that you keep your identity a secret and pay particular interest to anyone who shows a specific interest in Lady Hua. If the culprit discovers a member of the litter is missing, they will be keen to retrieve her. Keep me updated daily via post."

At that point Lady Hua yelped, for Jacob had clutched her tightly to his chest in violent reaction to the suggestion she might too be kidnapped. Holmes rolled his eyes and Watson cleared his throat so Jacob wouldn't notice the detective's disdain.

"There is of course one small issue, Holmes, that I do not own a dog with which to compete."

"Oh, you can take Toby," Holmes said dismissively.

Nicholls perked up at this, enough that Lady Hua could wriggle free of his grasp and jump gracefully back down to the floor. "Toby? What breed is he?"

Watson and Holmes exchanged a look.

"Well..." Watson started falteringly. "He is rather..."

"Unique." Holmes lit his pipe. "Watson if you would get your affairs in order for the trip to Edinburgh, collect Toby and by then it will be time to depart. I trust he can stay with you, Mr- er... Jacob?"

"Of course! I would be happy to, in fact we will be-"

"Then it is sorted," Holmes imposed forcefully over Jacob's chatter. "And remember, no one must know Watson's real identity. He will get better information if nobody suspects he wants it."

"What will you be doing in this time?" Watson asked curiously. "Whilst I fetch Toby and pack and the rest of it?"

"I, my dear Watson, will be investigating the scene of the crime."

* * *

Toby was an ugly dog, it could not be denied, a far cry from Jacob's dainty Pekingese. Nonetheless, he had been part of that pivotal case which had joined Watson and his dear Mary together, and so the Doctor would always feel a certain affection for the unusual black and white hound.

"He certainly is unique!" Jacob exclaimed when Watson entered the train carriage with the waddling mongrel at his side. He knelt down to eye level with Toby, who panted happily at him, and offered Lady Hua for inspection. "Good boy, Toby. This is Lady Hua. Say hello."

The two dogs sniffed at one another, but both seemed content to ignore the other and settle beside their handlers for the journey.

"He is a scent hound, really," Watson explained as the train departed the station. "Holmes and I used him on a recent case."

"A case?" There were times, Watson reflected, when Jacob looked remarkably like a dog himself. Eyes bright and ears veritably perked, he leaned forward in his seat. "Ever since I read A Study in Scarlet I have longed for another Sherlock Holmes mystery!"

Watson had turned bright red with the praise and tried to stammer an excuse, but with further prompting was soon telling the story of The Sign of the Four.

* * *

"This is where the dogs wuz kept, sir." Mr Sneed was a grey-whiskered gentleman dressed in a dirty smock, which he wiped his hands on in an unsuccessful attempt to clean them. Holmes noted that his fingers and palms were scarred from his life's work with dogs of various temperaments at Abraham Kennels. "We en't kept it clean nor nuthin'. Yew say yer with the police?"

"No," Holmes answered shortly, taking in the small place with some disappointment. "There is nothing useful here. Were you there the night the dogs disappeared?"

"I wuz s'posed to be watchin' 'em, but I fell asleep. When I woke up they wuz gone."

"I see." Holmes scrutinised Sneed. "New shoes?"

"Huh? Oh er..." He coughed and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Yeah, needed some. Yew got everythin' yew need?"

"Just one more thing, Mr Sneed." Holmes smiled, quick and cherub-like. "Who was it who paid you to look the other way when they took the dogs?"

Sneed flushed red beneath his grey whiskers. "I dunno what yer talking about."

"Really? Well, I could ask Mr Abraham himself..."

Sneed deflated, with an audible sigh of resignation. "Alrigh'. What do yew wanna know?"

* * *

[1] Queen Victoria owned a Pekingese dog called Looty. "After the sacking and destruction of Beijing's summer palace in 1860, the Chinese empress' Pekingese – the appropriately named Looty – was whisked to the royal family at Balmoral, bringing the previously unknown breed to the West".

[2] Yes, the Charles Cruft of Crufts Dog Show! Although he hasn't yet created that particular show yet.


	30. 29th Dec 2 of 2

_29th Dec: From Domina Temporis -_ Undercover

* * *

 **A/N:** Continuation of last. Again, please do point out any mistakes!

* * *

The next day, at half past 5 in the afternoon, Mr Mycroft Holmes was taking his customary walk home down Pall Mall. He enjoyed his daily walks to and from work, although this particular day was bitingly cold and he found himself wishing he had brought a warmer scarf. The bitter weather meant there were fewer people on the street. As he drew closer, Mycroft fancied he recognised one of these few.

"Sherlock?"

His brother looked harried and a cursory glance told Mycroft he had been up all night. He dragged a makeshift trolley behind him, covered by a warm quilt.

"I had quite forgotten you would be walking home at this time," Sherlock yawned, glancing back to the trolley to ensure he had not lost any of his precious cargo. "Before you ask, I am engaged on a case. One I quite regret taking on."

"Are those dogs?" Mycroft pulled back the quilt to get a closer look. Nonplussed, he concluded, "Yes. Six dogs."

"I will have to explain it all later." Holmes stifled another yawn. "I am here to visit the Kennel Club[1]. Its founder, Sewallis Shirley[2] is lodging there."

"I believe I may be able to assist you, brother mine. Sewallis is a member of my club."

* * *

"Good heavens!" Mr Shirley stopped in the doorway of the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club. His moustache twitched and he beamed as 6 dogs rushed up to meet him. "Mycroft, what is going on?"

"This is my brother Sherlock," Mycroft indicated Holmes, who was hunched smoking by a window. His face was pinched from his sleepless night. "He was hired by a Mr Jacob Nicholls to track down the dogs that went missing two nights ago."

Shirley crouched amidst the dogs, laughing in disbelief. "However did you find them?"

"There was very little to it," Holmes spoke, off-hand, from his corner of the room. One of the dogs padded up to him and yipped. He frowned intensely at it, until it backed off and hurried back to Mr Shirley. "Just some legwork. I obtained information from the employee on duty which led me to a washer-woman in Shoreditch. I followed her for some time and had to watch her house until early this afternoon, when she visited a nearby enclosure where the dogs were being kept. When I confronted her she handed them over easily enough; she had already been paid and was apparently supposed to kill the dogs, which she did not wish to do."

"Not much of an intellectual challenge," Mycroft jibed, with a twinkle in his eye. "Though there is still the question of motive."

"She said the man who hired her to steal and kill the dogs was a 'tall, posh gentleman with dark hair'."

"Why, you could fit that description brother mine."

"When I made that very same comment, her reaction was not a positive one," Holmes said blandly. "In truth, my working theory has been somewhat debunked. I had heard, recently, of certain contraband items being smuggled into England via exotic animals[3]."

"I had heard of this as well... a rare diamond in the belly of a tiger," Mycroft mused. "You assumed something was being smuggled in the dogs? They are quite... small for that."

"Indeed." Holmes lit another cigarette and puffed angrily. "I shall have to rethink my theories."

Mr Shirley shushed the dogs, who had grown over excited once freed from their trolley, and stood up again. "I am happy to help in any way I can. It is the least I can do after you have saved my dog."

"Which is yours, Sewallis? I always thought you preferred working dogs."

Mr Shirley smiled guiltily. "You are right, of course. Truthfully I have no idea which of these is mine, but I wanted the chance to enter the first Pekingese in the stud book."

"Stud book?"

Mr Shirley's diminutive stature expanded with pride as he explained. "A codified rule-book established by The Kennel Club. A way to trace pedigrees, that sort of thing, all very important for judging the value of a dog." He frowned down to the furry, wriggling mass at his feet. "Mr Holmes, there is a dog missing here."

"What?" Holmes strode over. "There are six- Oh!" He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead in frustration. "Of course, I am not counting the fellow who was travelling to Edinburgh because he wasn't on Mr Nicholls' list. Why-ever would someone want to keep a dog for himself, but kill the rest?"

"My guess is that it is Lord Kangxi, the male," Mr Shirley ventured. "Mr Wilkinson had plans to stud him out and develop the pedigree. He beat several others out in the bidding."

Holmes was unconvinced. "That's a great deal of effort for a dog."

Mycroft and Sewallis laughed. Holmes, whose sleepless night had left him grouchier than usual, glared at the two of them.

"I fail to see what is so amusing."

"There is a lot of money in this business, Mr Holmes." Sewallis waved to the dogs playing behind him. "Assembled here are dogs worth more than some men would make in a lifetime. Lord Kangxi is worth more even than that. If the other dogs were dead, his value only increases."

Holmes eyed the pack of Pekingese doubtfully. "Indeed?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft scolded. "You really didn't think to research into this beforehand? It sounds as though the person with most to gain from this is the very man who brought you the case."

"Oh no," Sewallis shook his head. "I cannot see Jacob doing something like that. He is a very kind fellow."

"Yet he was the only one whose dog did not go missing," Mycroft pointed out. "He can continue to win competitions with his dog - Lady Hua, was it? - and use Kangxi to continue the pedigree. Perhaps he only brought the case to my brother's attention in order to deflect suspicion. Goodness Sherlock, whatever is the matter!"

Holmes had collapsed shakily into a chair, the colour draining from his face. "I have sent Doctor Watson to Edinburgh with Mr Nicholls. I thought the smugglers might reveal themselves there, but I never considered..."

"You are exhausted, Sherlock. You must get some rest," Mycroft instructed firmly. "The Doctor will be fine, I am sure. Killing a dog is one thing - a man is quite another! And it might not be Mr Nicholls at all, there is Mr Cruft to consider too."

"Mr Cruft?"

"The man we dined out with, the night of the theft," Mr Shirley supplied. He herded the dogs together in preparation of departure. "He is trying to make a name for himself in the dog show business and I would put nothing past him. He is the worst sort of businessman, despicable fellow[4]."

Holmes nodded tightly, regaining his feet. "Regardless, I must get to Edinburgh as soon as possible. If there is any conclusion to be reached, it will be there."

Mycroft looked apprehensively to the grey sky outside. "I fear snow is on its way. Tread carefully, Sherlock."

* * *

My dear Holmes,

You must forgive me if I ramble, but I am quite exhausted. I had hoped to rest on the train journey, but Jacob has had me telling him story after story of our recent cases. I believe you sent me on this trip just to avoid interacting with him yourself, but he is well meaning enough. We are staying in his family's estate, a pleasant manor house with extensive grounds just outside of Edinburgh. Rather less pleasant is his other guest, Mr Aldous Wilkinson. You may recall he is the fellow who lost the stud, Kangxi, and a great deal of money to boot. He and Jacob are old friends, but Aldous is as ill-tempered as Jacob is good-natured. I can only assume he is jealous that Lady Hua hasn't been taken, for he seems to care very little for dogs so much as their monetary value.

Immediately after our arrival we all headed to the welcome party. Needless to say, Toby does not look in with a chance of winning of this particular contest; never have I heard the word 'unique' utilised so much in the course of one evening! That aside, there are several people who attended the party who I feel I should draw your attention to.

The first was Mr Charles Cruft, the same who hosted dinner for the Pekingese owners during the theft. He is quite the cunning salesman, I very nearly felt obliged to purchase a batch of Spratt's specialised dog biscuits from him by the end of ten minutes! He was decidedly uninterested in Lady Hua, much more with Jacob himself and monopolised him for a large portion of the evening. In addition, he told me he and his wife only own a cat but I noticed what I am nearly certain was a dog hair on his coat. There is certainly something dishonest about him, but whether it pertains to the crime or not is up to you.

Another gentleman, Captain George Augustus Graham[5], spent the rest of Jacob's time asking him endless questions about Lady Hua and was particularly keen to examine her physically. He breeds Irish wolfhounds, or is attempting to. They have been close to extinction and he has had to search for various different species of dog in order to continue breeding, hence his fascination with the unusual Pekingese. His curiousity does strike me as odd, however, given that a Pekingese is among one of the smallest dogs I have ever seen and Captain Graham's Irish Wolfhound the largest!

Then there is Mr Iain Wells, one of the competition judges. Aldous and Jacob are both already acquainted with him, so he lingered with us for quite some time. He had another peculiar dog with him, a Schipperke, though the breed has not yet been standardised[6]. He did not strike me as being anything other than a little cold, but he was in London at the same dog show with Aldous and Jacob. That, coupled with his interest in unusual breeds, was something I thought I should highlight.

Now I must sleep, old fellow. I hope everything is well in London. The first day of the competition is tomorrow and I will write again in the evening. One of the benefits of Toby's unique appearance is that no one is quite sure which category of the competition he fits into, but everyone is far too polite to ask. Really he is the best cover one could ask for!

Yours,

Doctor John H Watson

* * *

Holmes felt his tension ease as he read the letter which had arrived for him at Baker Street. As of last night, Watson had been safe. There was no reason to imagine anything untoward had happened since then. With a quick word to Mrs Hudson that neither he nor the Doctor would need dinner for the next few days, he hurried out of 221B to hail a cab to the train station. He would not feel truly at ease until Watson was back at his side.

* * *

[1] The Kennel Club did have its headquarters on Pall Mall at this time, presumably on the same street as The Diogenes!

[2] Sewallis Shirley was the real founder of The Kennel Club. He was also a politician, which is how I imagine he may have come to be a member of the Diogenes Club.

[3] To this day people still smuggle things in animals and I found far too many articles about drugs being smuggled in puppies for my liking :(

[4] The Kennel Club really didn't like Charles Cruft back in the day, so I've taken that a little further here and assumed it extended to Sewallis.

[5] Charles Augustus Graham was a real man and he really was responsible for keeping Irish Wolfhounds from extinction. "Scotsman Captain George Augustus Graham is responsible with a few other breeders for attempting to reaffirm the breed's existence. In 1879 he wrote: "It has been ascertained beyond all question that there are few specimens of the breed still left in Ireland and England to be considered Irish Wolfhounds, though falling short of the requisite dimensions. This blood is now in my possession." Captain Graham devoted his life to ensuring the survival of the Irish Wolfhound. Owing to the small numbers of surviving specimens outcrossing was used in the breeding programme."

[6] The Schipperke was standardised as a breed in The Kennel Club's stud book in 1889.


	31. 30th Dec 1 of 2

_30th Dec: From Ennui Enigma -_ A dog provides the vital clue to allow Holmes and Watson to solve their mystery

* * *

 **A/N:** Continuation of last. As always, please let me know if you spot any mistakes!

* * *

Holmes pounded impatiently upon the front door of Jacob Nicholls' family home. His journey there had not been a smooth one; as they approached Berwick-upon-Tweed it had started to snow and from thereon in there had been severe delays. By the time he arrived in Edinburgh, the snow had begun in earnest. He was forced to wait until sunrise for a hansom driver willing to take him the last leg of the journey.

There was no answer to the door. Growing more impatient, and more uneasy, he knocked again. With a shiver he wrapped his Inverness tighter around him, for the snow had whipped up into a veritable storm. At last, the door opened.

"Oh, sir, are you with the police?" It was a young, pale maid who stood there. Her face was streaked with tears. "The body is in the drawing room."

Holmes felt for a second that all the air had disappeared from his lungs. _No... it couldn't be..._

"Abigail?" A man, glowering and dressed only in his pyjamas and dressing gown, appeared beside the maid. He looked Holmes up and down with evident distaste. "Who is this?"

"He's with the police, Mr Wilkinson." Abigail's voice wavered and she sniffed loudly, evidently fighting back hysterics. "I was just telling him about poor Mr Nicholls."

 _Mr Nicholls. Not Watson._ Holmes breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"I am not with the police," he told them, voice steadier than he felt. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. Mr Nicholls hired Doctor Watson and I to find the missing Pekingese dogs."

"Doctor Watson? The fellow with that mangy mongrel?"

Holmes bit back a scathing retort. "Mr Aldous Wilkinson, I presume?"

Wilkinson narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Indeed. I suppose you had better come inside, Mr Holmes. Abigail make yourself useful and fetch us some breakfast. And inform Doctor Watson that his _associate_ has arrived."

Abigail hurried away and Wilkinson led Holmes inside.

"Jacob took his own life." Wilkinson drilled a passing servant with a look so fierce that it sent the poor man scurrying down a separate corridor. "I would ask that you and the Doctor are discrete about it. We have sent a messenger for the police and then we will begin arrangements for the funeral. Needless to say, your services are no longer required."

"I have already found the missing dogs," Holmes snapped waspishly. "But that hardly matters now. May I examine the body?"

"I do not see there is any-"

"Mr Wilkinson?"

They had by now arrived in the dining room, where a timid Abigail awaited them.

"What is it?"

"It is Doctor Watson, sir." She hesitated, glancing to Holmes. "He is not answering his door."

Mr Wilkinson pinched the bridge of his nose with a growl of frustration. "Perhaps he is already up and awake, Abigail. With the noise you and the other servants have been making, it would be a small wonder."

She blushed and stammered, "But you see, his door is locked sir."

"Show me to the room," Holmes ordered, the fate of Jacob Nicholls momentarily forgotten. "I have a lock pick set with me."

* * *

Holmes's picks made short work of the bedroom door, but Watson was not there. Holmes swept a swift gaze over the room, noting the bed not slept in and the abandoned clothes on a chair. He strode to a small desk where there was a half-written letter.

* * *

Dear Holmes,

I have just eaten dinner with Aldous and Jacob, who are beginning to wear on one another. They clashed several times over the most inconsequential of issues and I suspect the cold is not helping. It started to snow just as we got back from the Dog Show and not all of the fires had been lit, so Aldous gave a stern telling off to one of the staff. Jacob did not take well to that, which was the start of the arguments.

The first day of the Dog Show was mostly uneventful, but I shall tell you everything I can think of. There is a huge mixture of society who attend, I had no idea! I found myself speaking with all sorts of people, from Lord and Ladies to the local butcher, all hoping their dog might win them some prize money. I bumped into Charles Cruft again, but he was distracted with the dogs he was sponsoring. The level of hygiene is frankly appalling at these events, and Mr Cruft one of the worst perpetrators[1]. I felt rather bad for most of the dogs in attendance, it has made me view Jacob's care for his own Lady Hua with rather more sympathy.

Captain Graham and his wolfhound were also there and we spoke for some time. I know I previously expressed my suspicion towards him, but he seemed satisfied with yesterday's examination of Lady Hua and made no further conversation with Jacob. In fact, he was perhaps the only person genuinely interested in Toby's breeding! I told him about his talent for scent and he was most intrigued. Apparently, if we ever had any inclination, Captain Graham would be only too happy to pay for us to stud Toby out...

You have often said I have a remarkable gift for silence, Holmes. Apparently I also have a remarkable gift for fading into the background, for I was able to see without too much difficulty several cases of contestants altering their hounds with make-up. Cutting fur, painting over imperfections, it is a world entirely alien to me. Moreover, I noticed Iain Wells talking in depth with one of the front runners of the competition and saw money change hands. It seems contestants are not above dishonesty and the

* * *

The letter ended abruptly here. Holmes inhaled sharply and, after a brief search of the bed, turned to an impatient Mr Wilkinson.

"Doctor Watson is in trouble." Wilkinson's face paled when he was fixed with Holmes's furious gaze. "He wrote this letter intending to post it last night before falling asleep, but something interrupted him. Evidently he thought there was some danger, for his revolver is not in its usual spot beneath his pillow. Take me to the drawing room and I will inspect Mr Nicholls' body. I am certain his death and Doctor Watson's disappearance are linked."

"Surely the police-"

"They will not be here for hours. Watson has already been missing for most of the night, and I will not suffer any further delay!"

Mr Wilkinson sagged, his irritated expression fading to one of weary tragedy. "Very well, but prepare yourself. Jacob's body is quite a sight."

* * *

Throughout his career, Holmes had seen his fair share of corpses. Still, he could not help but wince as he took in the mangled body before him and thought of that smiling, well-meaning gentleman who had stepped into his Baker Street living room only two days before. A corner of Jacob Nicholls' face was unrecognisable, a mass of blood and gore, subject to a close range bullet.

"Who found him?"

"One of the maids." Wilkinson kept his eyes firmly averted from the body. He had turned the unpleasant colour of congealed porridge. "She was lighting the fires and when she turned the gas up, there he was. He... he left a note."

"May I see it?"

"On the side table."

The note was short and to the point.

 _It is all my fault. I am so very sorry._

"Do you have something else in Mr Nicholls' writing?"

"I can fetch one of his letters?"

"Do."

Wilkinson returned within a few minutes, presenting the letter to Holmes for inspection.

"It is the same handwriting," Holmes concluded after close perusal. "But it appears he was hurried or in great distress."

"Small wonder," Wilkinson muttered, crossing his arms. "Can we please leave Jacob to rest in peace?"

Holmes ignored him, peering at the gun still clasped in Jacob's limp hand. "This is Watson's revolver."

"How could you possibly recognise that?"

Holmes fixed him with a glare he reserved for only the most idiotic of Scotland Yarders. "There are a great many details that mark this as Watson's revolver. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain them to you. Now, Watson's letter said you and Mr Nicholls had had a falling out?"

"What? You can't think that _I_ did this?!"

"I am simply gathering all the information I can. Without Watson's assistance I cannot be certain that Jacob really took his own life. No one was awoken by the gunshot and you said yourself that your maid was the one who discovered him."

Mr Wilkinson had changed from the porridge colour to a rather interesting shade of puce. "We did not have a _falling out_ , Mr Holmes. Jacob and I are- _were-_ old friends. I was simply irritated that he spent so much attention on that damn _dog_. It was there to make money and he treated it like a child!" He trailed off and looked sorrowfully to Jacob's body. "Obviously I regret the argument now. It was foolish."

"Hold on, where _is_ the dog?" Holmes looked around as though expecting to find her hiding somewhere in the room. "His Pekingese, where is she?"

"How should I know! A man is _dead_!"

"Mr Nicholls never went anywhere without that dog," Holmes snapped. "Do you not think it peculiar for her to be missing?"

Wilkinson took a deep breath, reigning in his temper with great difficulty. "Very well. I shall check with the servants."

* * *

None of the servants had seen Lady Hua since the previous night, but Abigail the maid directed them to the stables.

"Old Mr Simmons was keeping the Doctor's dog there," she told them. "Perhaps someone found Lady Hua and thought it best for her to be kept in the same place?"

They arrived at the stables, but there were no dogs in sight. Mr Simmons, busy safeguarding his horses against the cold, spoke in a thick Scottish brogue.

"Nah, I've nae seen Mr Nicholl's dog. An' 'at Toby was runnin' round in here this morn causing an almighty ruckus, so ah've tied him up ootside."

Holmes frowned. " _Toby_ was causing a ruckus?"

"Barkin' an' jumpin' all over the place. He's oot back if yeh wan' tae look for yersel'."

* * *

Toby was tied up behind the stable. When he saw Holmes he strained and pulled against the rope around his neck, howling himself into a frenzy. Holmes untied him and the dog, usually so waddling and slow, stuck its nose into the air and pranced around agitatedly.

"What is it boy? What do you smell?"

Toby whined, running out into the snowy ground and back again, barking at the top of his lungs.

"We should go back inside." Wilkinson had gotten dressed in his day-wear, but still clasped his arms around himself in reaction the cold. "Perhaps Lady Hua is in Jacob's room."

"Toby! Come here!"

Begrudgingly, Toby padded up to Holmes, though his body was coiled as tightly as a spring. Holmes picked up one of Toby's paws and felt his heart sink as his fingers came away red.

"Blood." He stood and turned to Wilkinson. "I will need my coat and the heaviest set of boots you can find. I believe Toby knows where Watson is."

* * *

It took a little persuasion, but Holmes would not take no for an answer and was soon prepared to venture into the snowstorm. The staff had all warned against it and, in an unusual moment of compassion, even Mr Wilkinson advised caution.

"Mr Holmes," he pled as Holmes pulled on a warm woollen hat and scarf lent by Mr Simmons. "Be sensible. That mutt could lead you to the middle of nowhere! And if Jacob used the doctor's revolver to end his own life, then it implies..."

"I am aware of what it implies." Holmes had thought as much even before they had found the Doctor's revolver; only Jacob would have had the key to lock the Doctor's bedroom door. "Regardless, I refuse to leave Watson out there alone on the basis of a theory. Come now Toby, good boy."

And thus the dog led the detective eagerly out into the snow.

* * *

[1] The first shows Cruft ran were criticised for the poor treatment and hygiene of the dogs competing.


	32. 30th Dec 2 of 2

_30th Dec: From Ennui Enigma -_ A dog provides the vital clue to allow Holmes and Watson to solve their mystery

* * *

 **A/N:** Continuation of last. Thanks everyone for sticking with this! I think my next and final response will be an epilogue of sorts.

* * *

It was still very early morning, but the heavy snow rendered everything several shades darker than it should have been at that time of day. Toby never wavered from his course and Holmes kept his eyes firmly on the hound, quick to pull him from any of the heavier snowbanks. When they finally reached their destination, both man and dog were thoroughly soaked.

It was an old, wooden barn. Even if Holmes had known it was there, it was so small and out of the way he doubted he could have found it without Toby's assistance. The dog shot through the open door, Holmes close behind.

"Watson!"

He was sprawled face down in a smeared pool of blood, dressed only in his pyjamas and dressing gown. At the back of his head was a dark and matted lump and he did not respond to the frantic calls of his name. Holmes hurried forward and fell to his knees, removing his glove to feel at Watson's neck.

"Thank God," he whispered fervently at the pulse bouncing beneath his hand. He removed the thick coat leant to him by the estate staff and wrapped it around Watson, whose skin had felt worryingly cold even to a man who had just emerged from a snowstorm. Toby padded anxiously around them both, whimpering and occasionally nudging the Doctor. He sniffed curiously at a small trail of vomit leaking from Watson's mouth and, with a jolt of panic, Holmes forced his friend into an upright position.

"That's it," he instructed gently as Watson coughed, expelling the remainder of the blockage to his airway. "Just breathe old fellow, that's right."

It was in this position, sitting on the floor with Watson braced against his chest, that Holmes noticed another body in the far corner of the barn. An unexpected sadness washed over him as he beheld the small, furry corpse. It was Lady Hua.

"He is still alive then."

Holmes jumped, causing Watson to moan weakly in his arms. Aldous Wilkinson towered in the doorway, Watson's revolver trained on them both. Holmes felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the snow settle deep into his chest as the pieces assembled slowly in his mind.

"Of course. You and Jacob were old friends, you would have known where the estate keys were kept. But why kill Jacob? Why Watson?"

Wilkinson's breaths were ragged, eyes wide and filled with a genuine anguish. His hair was wet from the snow outside and Holmes wasn't sure if it were cold or emotion with which the man trembled. "It was so simple. I had all the dogs killed but the stud and Jacob's bitch. I made sure she ate something she shouldn't, I knew he wouldn't come to the dinner when she was ill. It would have been so easy, and no one would have been hurt. No one would have even _known!_ "

Holmes thought of the six dogs Wilkinson was happy to have killed, but decided not to comment. "Jacob didn't know anything?"

"Of course he didn't know! If he'd have known do you think he would have approached a private _detective_?" Wilkinson's grip tightened on the gun, hand shaking. "Idiot. He was an idiot. When he told me who Watson really was I had to reveal what I had done. And then that meddling _Doctor_ had to stick his nose in!"

Holmes's arms tightened convulsively around his friend, whose head lolled limp and unresponsive against him. His face was littered with bruises. "When Watson realised you stole the dogs, you knocked him unconscious in his room and dragged him out here. Jacob refused to help, so you shot his dog as a warning."

"He should have _known_." Hot, angry tears spilled across Wilkinson's cheeks. "I thought I had persuaded him, but then Watson came round and went for me. I hit him again and again and then- then Jacob..." He shuddered a deep sob. "He should have let me finish him off! I didn't have a choice! He chose that _stranger_ over me!"

"You shot him and took his body to the house so he would be blamed for the theft and for the murder. You left Watson out here to die."

"He was half-dead already," Wilkinson spat, shifting the gun so it aimed directly at Watson's face, settled just above Holmes's heart. "But you're right; I should put him out of his misery."

Holmes's eyes flickered desperately around the abandoned barn. Searching for some escape, he strove in panic to prolong the conversation. "What about the note? The one you showed me, it was the same handwriting as Jacob's letter."

"Ha! My own copy." Wilkinson grinned in manic triumph. "It was messy, of course, but I thought people would put that down to his mental state. You certainly fell for it."

"You are quite the actor," Holmes acknowledged, shifting his grip around Watson as an idea occurred to him. "Your grief for your friend seemed almost genuine."

"Almost?"

"Oh, do not pretend you ever cared for Jacob, Mr Wilkinson. You care only for yourself and your money."

Wilkinson's face contorted into an expression of intense anger and he squeezed the trigger with a bellow of rage. Holmes, expecting this, used his adjusted grip around Watson to fling them both to one side. As the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the stone floor and into a wooden wall, Holmes struggled to his feet, but his ringing ears and muffled hearing had left him disorientated. Wilkinson re-aimed the gun.

" _Gah!_ " Another shot went wide as Toby, who had watched events play out with hackles raised, launched himself forward and latched onto Wilkinson's leg with a feral snarl. Blindly, Wilkinson fired downward. There was a yelp and Toby released him, but the distraction had been enough for Holmes to regain his equilibrium and launch his own attack.

His fist sunk squarely into Wilkinson's stomach, causing the man to double over with an exhale of air and his grip on the gun to loosen. Holmes seized his wrist and forced it up with an audible _crack!_ that broke the bone, then caught the gun that slipped from nerveless fingers and used its butt to whack the other man's temple. Wilkinson crumpled to the ground in an undignified heap.

Holmes stood above him, catching his breath. When he was certain Wilkinson wasn't going to get up, he tucked Watson's revolver into his belt and turned to tend his friend. Toby, front left paw raised from the ground as blood dripped sluggishly from the wound he had sustained during the fight, stood guard beside the Doctor and Holmes felt a warm swell of affection for the loyal hound. He ripped a strip from his own shirt and used it to wrap Toby's leg.

"Good boy Toby," he murmured as he tied the makeshift bandage off. "Very good boy."

"Need... to stich'at..."

"Watsn!" Holmes laughed in giddy relief at the sorely-missed voice. He surged forward, Toby limping behind him, and helped his friend to sit up. "How do you feel?"

"D'no... tired..." Watson's eyes roamed, unfocused, around the barn. Somehow he did not notice Wilkinson's prone form, but he did squint at Lady Hua's dead body with a spark of awareness. "Jacob..?"

"There will be time to explain later." Holmes slung the Doctor's good arm around his shoulder and cinched his own arm around his waist. "For now dear fellow, we must get you some help. Up on three, now - one, two, _three!_ "

They made it upright, but the sudden movement had Watson retching with dizziness. Holmes held him up as what little was left in his stomach was forcibly ejected.

"S... Sorry..." Watson murmured shakily. "Room's... Spinning..."

"Just keep your eyes closed and your feet moving," Holmes advised. "And keep that coat wrapped around you, for it is about to become even colder."

"Not cold... jus'... s... so tired..."

"Stay awake Watson," Holmes instructed sharply. "Lean on me old fellow. That's it."

* * *

The journey was slow. Several times Holmes found himself bracing the entirety of Watson's weight, whose severe concussion had left him with tenuous balance. In addition, Toby's leg injury had them pausing several times as the dog struggled valiantly through the deepening snow. Holmes ignored the nagging worry of what would happen to them if Toby couldn't find his way back. The dog had got them this far, after all.

"N-Nearly there now," Holmes murmured into Watson's ear as the Nicholls' estate house reared into view. He had transferred his hat and scarf to Watson once he had observed with alarm that not once during the journey had the Doctor begun to shiver. Ahead of them Toby broke into a three-legged sprint, hopping excitedly towards the distant, lighted windows. "J-just a little f-further."

Watson's face was swollen and bruised, his clothes stained with blood and vomit and the stiff way he held himself suggested to Holmes that there was further injury he could not see. Nevertheless, staunch and loyal to the end, Watson struggled onward.

"Issat... L'strade?"

"Mr Holmes! Doctor Watson!"

Holmes blinked in utmost shock. It was indeed Lestrade, bundled up in a huge overcoat and wielding a lantern.

"They're over here! Bring the wagon!"

* * *

The next few minutes passed in a blur as they were wrapped in blankets, loaded into a wagon and wheeled the remaining distance to the house. Holmes tried to explain through chattering teeth what had happened, but Lestrade interrupted him halfway.

"We already know about Wilkinson, Mr Holmes." His eyes glinted with humour. "Your brother Mycroft was the one who sent me here. Got it all figured out just after you left. He wanted Gregson[1], but the poor bugger's been off with flu all week."

Holmes frowned. Glad as he was for Lestrade's timely arrival, it was always irritating to be bested by his older brother and he wasn't sure he would ever live this particular blunder down.

* * *

They arrived at the house and Watson, clinging to consciousness with great difficulty, was whisked away to the warmest bedroom. Holmes was allowed to accompany him, but only as a fellow patient.

"H-he has been struck m-multiple times on the h-head, w-was unconscious f-for s-several hours and-"

"Thank you Mr Holmes, I get the idea." Doctor Fletcher, a visiting physician employed by the Edinburgh police, forced a steaming mug into Holmes's hand. "Now lay back under those covers and drink this." He turned to Lestrade, who was struggling not to laugh at Holmes's dumbfounded expression, "Ask the staff for more blankets, warm tea and soup. And get rid of this dog for goodness' sake!"

Toby, still muddy and wet from the snow, had thus far managed to slip beneath everyone's notice due to the urgency of Watson's condition.

"T- Toby s-stays!" Holmes's imperious tone was somewhat undermined by his shivering. "H- his leg s-still needs treatment."

"Mr Holmes," Fletcher began with forced patience. "I really don't think that's appropriate."

Holmes opened his mouth to debate the issue, but it was Watson who got the final word when he extricated his hand from one of the many quilts Fletcher had piled on top of him and reached out for the mongrel. Toby leapt onto the Doctor's bed, turned in a circle and planted himself firmly atop the Doctors blanketed feet.

Watson's hand fell back beneath the covers and his battered face creased into a grin. "G'boy, Toby."

Fletcher looked helplessly to Lestrade, who could only shrug.

"Fine! Fetch a bowl of some dog food as well. Honestly... I am a doctor, not a veterinarian!"

* * *

By the time Lestrade had returned from his errands, Holmes had stopped shivering and Watson - head now bandaged - had begun. Fletcher assured them this was a good sign.

"It is when the he could not shiver that he was in real danger," he explained, holding a mug of the tea that Lestrade had brought and helping Watson to take small sips. "I have seen several young farmhands die that way up in the Highlands."

Holmes looked with concern to Watson, whose efforts to drink were hindered by his violent shivers. "What about the rest?"

"The head wound and concussion are severe, and he has extensive bruising across the face and body, as well as two cracked ribs. Oh, and I have had to bandage his knuckles too. It looks as though your friend put up quite the fight."

Holmes grinned with undisguised pride and Lestrade said,

"We'd expect nothing less."

Watson, puzzled by the new voice in the room, blinked at Lestrade over the rim of his mug as if seeing him for the first time.

"L'strade? Issere a c-case?"

"No, Doctor Watson," Lestrade replied with a kindly pat to the Doctor's shoulder. "This time you have done my job for me!"

"...Wilkinson?"

"Our men picked him up about half an hour ago. Mr Holmes had him knocked him out cold!"

"'lmes?" Watson looked to Holmes, forehead creasing with further confusion. "Thought y-you're in L... London...?"

"Not any more, Watson. Now drink your tea, there's a good chap."

Watson grimaced. "'S t-too s-sweet... Tell M-Mrs H'dson..."

"He is likely to be confused for several days yet." Fletcher advised, took the mug and helped Watson recline back against a veritable mountain of pillows. "But I think we can let him sleep now. Be sure to wake him once an hour and consult me again if the symptoms do not decrease."

"I shall," Holmes promised. He hesitated, glancing to the dog still pressed into Watson's side. "Now, about Toby..."

Fletcher sighed. "Well, I am not exactly used to treating dogs, but I suppose there is a first time for everything. Come here boy! Come here!"

Toby tumbled out of the bed, whimpering with pain when he landed with too much force on his bad leg. Fletcher pulled back Holmes's makeshift bandage, hissing as he saw the damage beneath.

"Well it will need to be stitched," he confirmed Watson's sleepy diagnosis from earlier. "Inspector, do you have that dog food? We shall sneak a powder in there to help him sleep, and then I shall sew him up. Quite the furry hero we have here!"

"Hero is right!" Lestrade exclaimed, dishing out the dog food with gusto and setting it down for an all-too-eager Toby. "From what you've said, Mr Holmes, you owe Toby your life!"

Holmes's eyes were on Watson, soundly sleeping and safe at last. Softly, he agreed, "I owe him a great deal."

* * *

[1] Gregson was the Inspector Mycroft first met in The Greek Interpreter.


	33. 31st Dec

_31st Dec: From KnightFury -_ Celebrations.

* * *

 **A/N:** And at last, the challenge for this year is finished! So sorry it took so long. Once again, thanks to everyone who has taken part. If any of you are interested in taking part next December, please do drop me a line.

* * *

Watson spent the next few days sleeping, woken only to ensure that his concussion had not developed into something more worrying.

"A case?" Was a frequent question of his once nudged awake, no doubt seeing Holmes's tall figure above his bed and thinking himself back in Baker Street. Less frequent, but a tad more disconcerting, was the question, "Is it my watch already, Murray?"

Holmes, to his credit, remained patient and solicitous through Watson's recovery. Eventually Watson's conversation had settled into something that made any sense and the two of them spent Christmas evening (for Watson had slept through the morning and afternoon) engaged in an extensive game of chess. They never did decide a winner as Toby ended the game preemptively by trampling through it, something Watson found most amusing. The lines of pain his new injuries had wrought into his posture eased a little as he threw back his head in soft laughter.

"Bad dog," Holmes admonished half-heartedly, knowing full well that Toby took no notice of the reprimand as he plopped himself unceremoniously into Watson's lap. "You are spoiling that hound with your attentions Watson. Sherman will be most vexed to learn that not only does Toby have a limp, but new loyalties that far exceed his excellent instinct for scent!"

Watson, still laughing, leant back against the leg of his bed . They had been playing on the floor, hence the ease with which Toby had destroyed their match.

"Speaking of which, that Captain Graham stopped by the day after we found you." Holmes cleared away the scattered chess pieces, happy to take on the burden of conversation until his friend felt ready to call it a night. "If Sherman _is_ dissatisfied, Graham seemed only too happy to take on Toby. Indeed, I hope you will not be offended, but he seemed far more concerned by Toby's bullet wound than by your own injuries!"

"I am neither offended nor surprised. Truly Holmes, if we are to learn anything from this entire affair it is not to underestimate the love a man can have for his dog!" Watson's expression sobered. He pushed Toby gently from his lap so as to stand and clamber into his bed. "Poor Jacob. The look on his face, when Aldous shot Lady Hua..." He shook his head sadly and settled himself beneath his covers, inhaling sharply when the movement sent a jarring pain through his ribs. "What will become of Kangxi, Holmes?"

They had located the final Pekingese just after the mystery had been solved, when canine whining had alerted the staff to the dog's presence in Aldous' bedroom. Holmes had already had this conversation with Watson, but repeated patiently that Sewallis Shirley had agreed to take Kangxi on and sire a new litter to continue the pedigree.

"We will return to London soon," Holmes added, turning down the gaslight and going to his own bed. He hoped the news would cheer Watson, for there was an undeniable tragedy that lingered in the house of the client Holmes had so spectacularly failed. "If all goes accordingly we shall even be back for New Year's Eve. Mrs Hudson has written and promises a veritable feast to make up for our missed Christmas dinner. That, at least, should be a cause for some celebration?"

"Hm." Watson's short response sounded unconvinced, but Holmes couldn't be sure if that was due to fatigue or lingering sadness. "Holmes, I would like to write up more of your cases. On the train here I recounted several to Jacob and I had forgotten-" He yawned loudly. "-I had forgotten how much I enjoy writing. It is just a thought of course, if you would rather I didn't... well, I know you did not approve of the Jefferson Hope account..."

"So long as I reserve the right to withdraw my permission, you may write what you please. After all, they are not only _my_ cases, but ours."

"That is not exactly-"

"It _is_ true," Holmes insisted with unusual ferocity. "You are an integral part of this partnership and have as much right to the narratives as I do."

Watson's stunned silence rang through the darkness.

"Besides which," Holmes continued matter-of-factly, "I have not yet gotten you a Christmas present, so you may consider my blessing as such."

"That's settled then." Watson's breaths were deepening into the rhythm of slumber." Merry Christmas, Holmes..."

"Merry Christmas, Watson."


	34. CONTENTS

**CONTENTS:**

1\. _Deadline_ \- **Humour.** When Watson has a looming deadline, Holmes will happily take any case Lestrade is offering.

2\. _A large bug is found in 221B Baker Street._ \- **Humour.** Holmes does not like bugs.

3\. _Silk thread_ \- **General.** Holmes knocks over Watson's writing desk and inadvertently ruins a prized possession.

4\. _Mrs Hudson tells two truths and a lie._ \- **Romance, General.** Mrs Hudson meets Mr Holmes and he deduces who 'Mr Hudson' really was.

5\. _Something from Mary's childhood._ \- **Friendship, Romance.** Watson needs Holmes's help, and quickly, to secure a Christmas gift for Mary.

6\. _A cold, dark cell for an innocent man._ \- **Friendship, Angst.** Holmes loses faith in his abilities and decides to retire.

7\. _Watson tells the Irregulars a story_ \- **Friendship, Fluff.** Everyone gathers around to hear how Watson proposed.

8\. _Watson learns to play an instrument (or tries)_ \- **Humour.** Watson is canny in the art of revenge.

9\. _True meaning_ \- **Humour.** Holmes and Watson argue after the publication of _A Study in Scarlet._

10\. _Space Travel_ \- **General, Sci-Fi.** Holmes and Watson wonder if there really is life out among the stars.

11\. _Holmes finds himself accidentally locked into a church overnight._ \- **Angst.** During his hiatus Holmes is locked into a church, and has time to reflect on the decisions that have led him here.

12\. _One Night in Paris_ \- **Family, Friendship.** Doctor Watson comes to tell Mrs Hudson about potential scandal and, as ever, she takes it in her stride.

13\. _Christmas carols._ \- **Friendship, Humour.** Doctor Watson has a new passion for singing!

14\. _Never underestimate a scorned princess._ \- **Humour.** The King of Bohemia must face the consequences of his actions.

15\. _An old tradition._ \- **Humour.** Holmes and Watson get tiddly.

16\. _Someone breaks their leg on ice_ \- **Humour, Friendship, H/C.** Watson teaches the Irregulars a lesson about not playing on frozen lakes, but at detriment to himself.

17\. _Courage_ \- **Angst, Friendship, H/C.** When Holmes is in a black mood, Watson is there to see him through it.

18\. _A friend is missing._ \- **Angst, Friendship.** Holmes inadvertently puts his foot in it and must try and set things right with Watson.

19\. _Larkspur_ \- **Angst, Friendship, H/C.** Continuation of 18. Holmes tracks down Watson and he learns about what happened during his three years' absence.

20\. _Snowed in_ \- **Friendship, Humour.** Holmes's impatience on a case leads to the two friends being trapped in the Scotland Yard stables.

21\. _Role reversal_ \- **Humour, H/C.** Continuation of 16. Holmes enlists the Irregulars' assistance in treating Doctor Watson.

22\. _A cold December night._ \- **Humour, Romance.** Watson is in love and Holmes is annoyed.

23\. _Hope_ \- **Angst.** Watson blunders on a case, but there is more to the issue than Holmes is seeing.

24\. _Royal Court_ \- **Humour.** A theatre diva comes to Holmes with a case.

25\. _Norbury_ \- **Humour, Friendship, Family.** Holmes, Watson, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson all gather at Mycroft's for Christmas dinner.

26\. _Holmes in a bad mood_ \- **Friendship, Humour.** When Holmes is in a bad mood Scotland Yard, Scotland Yard struggles.

27\. _Eat, drink, and be merry_ \- **Humour.** Watson gets Holmes to attend the Scotland Yard Christmas celebrations.

28\. _Faithful Toby_ \- **H/C.** Watson isn't sure who or where he is, but at least Toby is there.

29\. _Undercover_ \- **Mystery.** Continuation of 28. Holmes is brought a dog-napping case and Watson must go undercover at a dog show.

30\. _Undercover_ \- **Mystery.** Continuation of 29. The case is almost solved, but Holmes may have made a terrible mistake.

31\. _A dog provides the vital clue to allow Holmes and Watson to solve their mystery_ \- **Mystery, H/C, Friendship.** Continuation of 30. Holmes follows Watson to the Edinburgh Dog Show, but the snow has set in and his friend may be in danger.

32\. _A dog provides the vital clue to allow Holmes and Watson to solve their mystery_ \- **Mystery, H/C, Friendship.** Continuation of 31. Holmes has found Watson with the help of Toby - but can he keep them all safe?

33\. _Celebrations._ \- **H/C, Friendship.** Continuation of 32. Holmes is with Watson as he recovers.


End file.
